


How to Save a Life

by Semebay



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-13
Updated: 2014-09-12
Packaged: 2018-02-17 04:34:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 19
Words: 48,464
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2296820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Semebay/pseuds/Semebay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur doesn't know where he belongs in life. Whether he's supposed to be alive or dead, he'll have to decide for himself. And as a fairly new transfer student, and someone that really has no clue what he's doing, the decisions he makes are going to be harder than ever.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally written in 2010-2011. I'm transferring it over here to keep it all in one place.

Arthur Kirkland was a name that everybody recognized, yet nobody liked. The student body president was an unfavorable asshole, always setting new rules and enforcing them with an iron fist. No one was exactly sure _how_ he had been elected as the president, but most students blamed the female populace. No one had heard anything out of the teen when he had arrived in the school as a sophomore, and while the girls had been interested in the foreign transfer, they had forgotten about him when they realized that he was unwilling to talk.

 

Of course, they had been excited when the boy had decided to run for student council, especially since he had started speaking. He had appeared oblivious to the looks cast in his direction whenever he spoke, his accent attracting the female students and turning them into swooning brats. The girls had thought of him as cute and likeable, since he was willing to talk, and so it was assumed (correctly) that they had all voted for the Brit. So he had been elected at the end of his sophomore year, and entered his junior year as the president.

 

And the students had realized that he wasn't what they had expected. He had been quiet during the election process, and remained quiet when he was chosen. He had somehow avoided the Frenchman that was chosen as vice-president, and the people chosen as treasurer and secretary, but there were rumors that he had met the Frenchman in secret, and that there had been a falling-out before a relationship could even be established. Then Arthur had retreated into his office, only revealing himself during classes.

 

Then they had begun to feel the consequences of Arthur's position. Class funds were cut from various clubs and sports, and after he had snapped at a sophomore that approached him, no one dared to question him. They didn't know what he did behind the closed doors of the student council's offices, but they imagined that he laughed while he went through the various files and tablets, cutting funds and grinning gleefully.

 

In reality, Arthur pored over the documents that waited on his desk, his fingers tight around the thin blue pen that he held. He read through each page, day after day, correcting every misspelling, and frowning as he read through student suggestions and checked the funds available for the school. Once in a while he would nap, then wake later to finish the day's work.

 

It was during the first week at school that Francis found him sleeping on the couch in the office, mumbling something under his breath as he turned and grimaced. He prodded the Brit awake, and green eyes opened to glare at him under thick brows.

 

“Wha' th' hell d'you wan', Frog?” Arthur asked groggily as he pushed himself up into a sitting position, rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand. “What're you doin' in here?”

 

Francis crossed his arms and frowned at the teen before him. It was true that he was slightly resentful of the younger man, considering he had snatched the president's title from his hands during the school election. However, there was nothing he could do to the other (short of assassination) that would change his position, and so he left it be. But some things were simply inexcusable.

 

“I can't walk through this school without hearing your name on the lips of every cute girl and every determined athlete,” Francis told him. Arthur ran a hand through his hair and messed it up more than it had been from sleep, and he looked around. “Is there a sport or club that you _haven't_ cut the funds of? Students are complaining, yet you sit here and sleep!”

 

Arthur stared blankly at him. “They haven't told me about it,” he said. Francis threw up his hands in exasperation and left the room, letting the door slam shut behind him.

 

“So be it!” his accented voice called from the other side, and Arthur listened as he walked away.

 

Once Arthur was sure Francis was gone for good, he slowly rose to his feet. He stood still and looking around the room, then leaned down and grabbed the book that had been on the couch beneath him. He tossed it onto the desk and listened to the thud, then looked around the room.

 

The office was bare save for the desk and a couple bookshelves. The bookshelves were piled with papers and folders, and Arthur slowly moved over to grab a stack. He set it down on the desk and sat, opening the first folder. The football team.

 

“No... It's soccer over here,” Arthur remembered, and he sighed. He read through the file, turning the page and checking the finances and the member list. Only seven members. Arthur leaned back in his chair and held the folder in his lap, his pen held firmly in his lap. How could such a small team use so much money? Their record was poor, and they didn't really have enough people to compete. The money had better use elsewhere, where it would be used properly and people would benefit from it.

 

That didn't make the decision any easier. Arthur always hesitated before he pressed his pen to the paper, and inside he felt like he was suffocating. He wasn't stupid. He knew what people said about him, knew what they thought of him. He wished that they would have ignored him in the election, picked someone else that could do the job. Someone that didn't regret every time they had to cut funds to better the financial situation of the student body, someone that didn't feel the paranoia of being watched no matter where he was. Someone who wasn't worthless, and hated.

 

Arthur made the damned mark, and slowly shut the folder. He set it aside and moved onto the next, his fingers shaking slightly with every page turned.

 

_Why had they picked him?_

 

 

* * *

  
 

“Arthur, I made chicken for dinner!” His mother was the first to greet him when he returned home. Her bright eyes seemed to dim when they passed over him, and he almost apologized for being there. He turned his head away and looked past her, towards the stairs that led to his room.

 

“Not hungry.” Her expression fell, and he felt like throwing up. Why was it he made everyone around him so miserable? “Sorry,” he muttered, and he passed by her and hurried up the stairs. He held his bag tightly to his chest, the folders from school inside. He still had to finish his homework and look through more files, to get everything organized for homecoming. He was sure it was going to be another night with only a few hours of sleep, and a migraine the following day that no amount of aspirin could help fix.

 

He was right. He was up for hours that night, working at the small desk in his room and scribbling math notes down on a sheet of lined paper. He stared at his calculus notes for a long time, trying to remember what integrands and slope fields were, then he pushed them to the back of his desk and returned to the folders for student council. Homecoming. That was in just over a month. The students wanted something cool, something to set their school apart from the rest. He had read through the suggestions, from the insane to the drab, and knew that the students wanted something exciting.

 

However, most students didn't seem to realize that there was such a thing as money, and that everything had a cost. Arthur took up his pen and pulled a piece of paper over, scribbling on it quickly. There had to be some way to make everything work out. Half of him wanted everything to work out, and wanted to help; but the other half wondered if he should really try so hard. He had worked hard to beat Francis, but after he had won, his mind had frozen. Doubt had hit him hard, and he had taken a step back. He couldn't play the president! He was a failure in social situations, unwilling to talk, so many things that didn't fit a leader.

 

However, he was also unwilling to give up. People looked at him condescendingly as the president, so how would they look at him if he dropped out as soon as winning? He could make a difference. Maybe he would be seen as a better person. Maybe he'd be able to talk to people more.

 

In the end, Arthur fell asleep at his desk. He woke with the buzzing alarm clock, tired and drained, unwilling to get up. But he did, and he gathered the papers around his desk and packed them in his bag before he showered. He left the house without a word, avoiding his brothers when they tried to stop him, and leaving his mother's breakfast in favor of a piece of toast. He had the plans for homecoming in his bag, sealed in a large envelope with his neat handwriting across the front. He planned to present it, sure that his hours of planning would result in a plan that was acceptable to all.

 

He arrived to school early, and climbed the stairs to the main offices. The secretary motioned him in, and he headed straight in to see the principal. He dug the envelope from his bag and held it out, letting the principal take it and tear it open. The two remained silent as the principal read through the packet, nodding and humming every so often. After a few minutes, he finally looked up, sliding the packet back into the envelope and sealing it.

 

“This is good,” the principal admitted. “You came up with this?”

 

“No,” Arthur found himself saying. His voice lowered, and he shrugged. “Some students delivered it to me. I simply rewrote it so that it would be legible.”

 

The principal said nothing, but he nodded and slid the envelope into his desk. “I'll send in for the necessary supplies,” he said. Arthur nodded numbly and turned away, leaving the office and walking down the empty halls towards the student council offices. Why had he lied? He couldn't figure out why he hadn't simply admitted to the fact that he had been up until three that morning, working on figures and checking contacts and suppliers. He couldn't figure out why he couldn't force himself to put his name on that plan. All it would have taken was a simple “yes,” but he just couldn't...

 

Arthur walked into the office and clicked the door shut behind him. He let himself fall into his chair, and then he cradled his head in his hands.

 

He needed something to kill the pain.  
  
 

* * *

  

Homecoming at the Academy was considered the real beginning to the year. Various games were held against other schools, and the Saturday night of homecoming weekend was the dance, a semi-formal event that everyone attended.

 

This year was no different, though it may have been a little bit better than years past. It probably had to do with the party on Saturday night. The students had been treated to a surprise in school Friday morning, when an announcement had been made concerning the school's pools. The ropes were removed and floats were put in, turning them into pseudo-waterparks for the students that loved to swim. Even spotlights were put in for the night, so that students could swim into the darkness. There was going to be a barbecue before the dance, and after, a bonfire. Students had been invited to bring music to hook into the school's PA system, and the cheerleaders had promised to entertain at the party, after the football game was over and done with.

 

The students eagerly waited for the day's events to start, surprised at how much work had gone into decorating the school grounds. Bonfires, a fully decorated gymnasium for the dance, the pools were lit and warmed.

 

And the student body president was nowhere to be seen when the day finally came.

 

Arthur finished his homework Saturday morning, the curtains in his room drawn to keep the too-bright sun away. He had no intention of attending the party, and dance. He knew exactly how the students viewed him. He didn't want to face them, and he didn't want to be the object of their attention. He didn't need them mocking him both behind his back and to his face; he didn't want to be subjected to whatever they could come up with.

 

He sat in the silence of his room, curled up in the small chair in the corner. He had Harry Potter open before him, and he imagined walking the halls of Hogwarts. He would be great there! He would be powerful, and in control of everything. People would respect him for all the right reasons, he would be popular. He wouldn't be _Brows._ He would be _Arthur._ It would be so much better there, in a place where nobody knew him, where-

 

“Arthur, is something wrong?”

 

Arthur pulled his eyes away from the book and looked towards his bedroom door, where his mother called from the other side. “What?”

 

“I thought homecoming was today,” his mother continued. “You seemed excited about this yesterday!”

 

“I decided not to go,” Arthur said, his voice low. “Nothing's wrong, Mum. I'm just busy.” He could hear her hesitation from the other side of the door, and then her footsteps left him, tapping away down the hall. He watched the door for another minute, and then looked back to his book. He swallowed and turned the page. He had to try and get inside it once again. He had to escape.


	2. Chapter 2

The homecoming had been a success. When school resumed, the events were the talk of both the school and the town, and teens would high-five and cheer in the hallway about the events. The football and track teams had come out on top in their game and meet, and there was a lot to be excited about, such as the football season that was looking good for the esteemed football players.

 

Arthur tried to be happy for what he heard in the halls. He tried to feel some sort of excitement for the successes of the teams, and the events that had gone down without a hitch. But he could only take a step back from what he heard, and try to distance himself from the fun that the rest of the school seemed to have. Once, he thought about his part in the festivities. He had managed to scrape together enough funds, through the acts of cutting back on purchases for different events and sports. He had planned for weeks, trying to get everything just right. But as soon as he had dared to think that he was part of the reason people had had so much fun, he had wanted to hurt himself. He had wanted to lock himself away in a dark room, and banish the thought from his memories. How could he dare to think he had done anything like that? He had done nothing. He had written on a sheet of paper. They had used funds from the taxes on the events. The athletes, and the students that actually _mattered_ in the school had been the ones that had done it.

 

Because he couldn't be the person that had done anything right. If anything, he was the person that had done everything wrong. He wasn't Chelles Seyers, the girl that could make friends with anyone (but him). He wasn't the frog, who attracted people wherever he went. He wasn't _anyone_ , really. He just _existed_. There was nothing special about him. He had no redeeming qualities. He was useless. Annoying. Hated.

 

And he reminded himself of those things every day. It was what he repeated to himself when he woke in the morning and showered. When he saw himself in a mirror. When he stared down the folders of papers on his desk. When he sat in classes, and when he walked home. Those thoughts stayed with him at every moment of the day, and he would not let himself forget. He had to knock himself down and humble himself. If he didn't, then he would start to think that he was as good as everyone else was.

 

And he wasn't. He never would be. He accepted that fact. He would never amount to anything, and he would never be above a shadow, something that held back, hiding behind whatever obstacle was closest, so that he wouldn't have to face anything.

 

“Hey.”

 

Arthur looked up from his papers slowly, and his eyes fell on a blond boy standing in the doorway. He had seen the boy in the halls before. He was Alfred Jones, one of the (American) football players. He didn't know anything beyond that (except he was a freshman), and he didn't feel that he should. He set his pen down and straightened his spine. “Can I help you?”

 

“Cool! Made it to the right place!” Alfred looked around the small office with a grin, sauntering in with a confidence that Arthur immediately began to despise. “So, I need to talk to you!” He waited for Arthur to speak, but continued when he received no response. “You know what happened to Steve, right? At the game?”

 

“No,” Arthur told him, and when it looked like Alfred was going to start a story, he raised a hand. “Just get on with it. Hurry up.”

 

Alfred shrugged. “Well, he broke his helmet in the game, and we need another one to replace it. I told the team I'd come ask you about it.”

 

Arthur picked up his pen and pulled a blank sheet of paper over. He started to write quickly, wondering but not really caring how someone could break a football helmet. “Fine.”

 

That confirmation seemed to make Alfred bolder, and his grin grew. “Y'know, we also want some new gear. Ours is a bit older, and since it looks like we'll be going really far this year, we want to look good, y'know? And-”

 

“The school will pay for the helmet, but I will not add that gear to the budget.” Arthur set his pen back down, and he clasped his hands.

 

Alfred acted as though he had been slapped. “Huh?”

 

“Your old gear is fine for this year, isn't it? It's perfectly safe, you just want something that looks new. The school will pay for something when it concerns safety. It will _not_ pay for vanity.”

 

Alfred stared at him in disbelief. He looked to the side, then shook his head and sighed. “Think I can see why the guys didn't want to bother,” he muttered. “And what right do you have to-”

 

“If you're going to start flinging accusations and questions that don't amount to anything useful, then I suggest you leave,” Arthur said, voice tinged with annoyance and his eyes flashing. “If you truly need gear to make yourself look better, than do some fundraisers. Work for what you want, instead of expecting everyone to pay for you.”

 

Alfred stared at him, and he crossed his arms. “We're busy with practice. And we have other stuff to do, we can't-”

 

“You'll do the fundraisers, or the only thing you're going to get is a new helmet. Non-negotiable.” Arthur returned to the folder he had been reading before Alfred interrupted him. The other did nothing. He just stood there and watched him, reading him and sizing him up.

 

“What're we supposed to have for fundraisers?” he finally asked, and Arthur wasn't sure he liked his tone. It was halfway between an exasperated sigh and a sneer, and he held his eyes shut for a moment. “We're _not_ having a stupid bake sale.”

 

Arthur reached down and yanked open a drawer, pulling out a folder and slamming it on the desk. “These are various ideas and organizations that help with school fundraiser,” Arthur snapped, “Now get out. I have work, and talking to you is hindering me and going nowhere. I don't care if you take the folder or not; just get out!”

 

Alfred grabbed the folder and left, letting the door click shut silently behind him. Arthur stared at the folder before him, and breathed deeply.

 

_Useless. Stupid. Annoying. Hated. Alone._

 

His fingers shook as he pressed his pen to a paper and pressed down. The ink caught like flame and raced across the paper, spreading outward from the pen and splotching the paper. He watched it as thought entranced, trying to keep himself in check.

 

_Useless. Stupid. Annoying. Hated. Alone._

 

_He deserved this._

 

 

* * *

 

 

He walked home alone. As always. He kept his head down and his fists shoved in his pockets, trying to think of everything and nothing all at once. He had homework. There was paperwork that had to be finished. He had to go home with his family. His mother would probably push him to eat dinner with everyone.

 

He didn't want to. He wanted to be alone, to finish his work. He wasn't hungry. He didn't want to be with them. He didn't like how his mother looked at him. She acted like something was wrong with him. She always looked at him and frowned, like she was judging him. He hated how she looked at him, and wanted to shrink away when in her presence. There was nothing wrong with him. If anything, there was something wrong with the world around them. It was so fucked up and repulsive, it was a wonder it was still in existence.

 

Arthur was jolted to attention when someone grabbed his shoulder, and he looked back to see that Alfred had found him. “What do you want?” he demanded, and Alfred grimaced. The American thrust the folder at him, then he held up a piece of paper.

 

“We'll do this one.”

 

Arthur took the paper from Alfred's fingers and glanced over it. “It's going to take more than a spaghetti dinner,” Arthur told him, and he slid the paper into the folder to fill out later. “I'll file it and give you a list of available dates. Then you're going to have to-”

 

“Nothing else in there works,” Alfred said bluntly, and Arthur glowered at him. “We looked at all of 'em.”

 

“Then find your own fundraisers.” Arthur turned and continued towards his house, but Alfred followed.

 

“No way! I have stuff to do!”

 

“I have more to do than you, I can guarantee that much. Your team needs to learn to be self-sufficient. You can't always rely on the charity of others, but you can learn to work for something you want.” Had Arthur's voice been low, he would have sounded almost nice. But he was quickly growing tired of the intruding teen, and his tone had curt, bordering on a snarl. He hated himself for it. He could hear the discontent and hatred in his own voice, but he couldn't force himself to stop. He wanted to have the upper hand in this one-sided competition, and he wanted to not feel like a failure.

 

Even though he was already feeling resentful towards himself for acting like a pompous ass. There was no reason for him to act better than the person following him. If anything, he was _below_ Alfred's level.

 

“I'll sign your team up for a dinner and get back to you. You have to be ready to prepare it, serve it, and impress the people that come. Goodbye.” Arthur turned away from Alfred, going down a long fence-lined road with trees that loomed over the present houses. He hated the area, truth be told. Hated the fences, and the trees that threatened to block out the sun. Hated the sun for letting itself be blocked out. Hated the fact that he could still hear Alfred following him, probably to get more information, or to just harass him more because he wasn't happy with the fundraisers.

 

Arthur grabbed one of the large black gates set into the fence, and he pushed it open quickly. He shut it behind him and latched it for good measure, and listened as Alfred's footsteps faded. The freshman had turned back in the other direction.

 

Good.

 

He managed to avoid his mother that night. He went in through the kitchen, made himself a sandwich, and then continued on to his room. He immediately set to work on homework, flying through his English with a small smile, and then feeling his stomach drop when he turned to his chemistry. He pored over it for hours that night, ignoring his mother calling him for dessert or dinner. He ignored her a lot lately. It was easier than having to see her look at him, with pity in her eyes. She probably regretted having him. He wasn't a perfect child, not like his brothers. He was weak at best, not fit enough for sports, not enthusiastic enough for much of anything else. He liked to read. That was what defined him. He read books, and he wanted to get away.

 

He wanted to be anywhere but here.

 

He gave up on his homework, and hated himself for it. He closed the thick chemistry book slowly, the _thud_ of the colliding pages sounding more like a death sentence than simply the end of his homework. He trudged to bed and collapsed onto the mattress, pulling his blankets around him tightly and hitting the light switch.

 

Arthur stared into space for an hour before sleep finally took him. He was worn, beaten. He had no peace in his dreams. He could see himself driving a car, and aiming it at a light post on the side of the road. The shrapnel and twisted metal turned into a fire, and he was staring at his bed, watching the flames grow higher as he sat within them, waiting for the embrace of death.

 

In his sleep. Cars. Drugs. Guns. He dreamt of them all, and more. He wondered what it would feel like. How much better it would be. No one would worry about him anymore. They wouldn't have to. He would be in a hole in the ground, and they could continue on with their lives, thanking the lord that he had been disposed of, and his remains left for the worms. The world would be a better place without him in it. The funeral he dreamed of was brief and curt. “He lived, he died.” End of sermon. Then everyone could go on their way, and forget all about him.

 

He turned in his sleep, and he wondered if there was a way to die without leaving anything behind. It would make him feel just a tiny bit better if there was.


	3. Chapter 3

“You have a doctor's appointment tomorrow.”

 

That was the greeting Arthur received when he woke the following moment. He stared at his mother over the countertop, taking slow bites from his toast as she stirred the eggs in the frying pan. “Why?” he asked her, setting his toast down and wiping the crumbs from his hands on a napkin.

 

“Your school requires yearly physicals,” she said, not looking at him. “I'll call the school and tell them you won't be there.”

 

“They didn't get one last year,” Arthur pointed out.

 

“We had just moved here. They didn't need one at the time.”

 

Arthur wasn't sure if he liked the fact that she wouldn't look at him. There was a part of him that enjoyed that the wouldn't look at him, that she wouldn't see him for what he was, wouldn't have to look at such a waste as he was. Yet, there was another part that mourned the lack of attention. That part wanted desperately for her to see him, recognize him for what he was, what was happening to him. He forced that part down. There was nothing wrong with him. Well, there was, but it was insignificant. He was simply not good. He was nothing compared to everyone else. He was a failure, worthless in the eyes of others. But he realized his faults, and he kept himself grounded. He always had to keep himself grounded, lest he think too highly of himself, and think of himself as on the same level as the people around him.

 

“You still have an hour before school begins,” his mother told him, and he looked at her in confusion. “Have some eggs. You can't get by on just toast.”

 

Arthur looked down at the piece of toast that he had been about to throw away. It seemed to glare at him, telling him that if he weren't there, then the money used on that piece of bread could be used on something else. He felt sick, and-

 

“You're not going to school until you eat something good,” his mother said before he could grab his bag. “It takes you what, ten minutes to get there? What do you need fifty minutes for?” She finally looked at him, her thin lips upturned in a smile, and the wrinkles around her eyes pulled tight. She looked tired. He didn't like that. He didn't like that she looked so tired. He wanted her to go back to sleep, to rest fully with their father. He would do her tasks, would let her keep that vibrant youth, the youth her friends in England had always envied-

 

“Here.” She pushed a plate over to him, and he looked down at the yellow eggs with a look akin to disgust. God, he hoped she couldn't see how he looked at them. She was perfect. Her food was always perfect, it was _him_ that didn't deserve it. He didn't deserve any of her kindness, any of her thoughts.

 

“It looks great,” he told her, and he forced a smile onto his face as he took a seat at the counter, taking the fork she passed him and digging it into the mass of yellow. He shoved a clump of the food into his mouth and swallowed. It tasted like cardboard, scratching and tearing at his throat as it went down, like a poison, something that ate away at his insides and-

 

“It's good,” he told her, and she smiled at him. That tired smile, that smile he wanted to erase from her face, and replace with something better.

 

He was disgusting.

 

 

* * *

 

 

He was in the principal's office twenty minutes before the school doors were supposed to open. The principal raised an eyebrow at him, like he always did when Arthur showed up before most of the staff. Then he saw the envelope in Arthur's hand, and he nodded his understanding.

 

“What ideas do you have this time?” the principal grinned, and Arthur pulled the folded sheets of paper from the envelope.

 

“The football team wants to do some fundraisers,” Arthur said. The principal invited him to continue with a nod. “They want to host a spaghetti dinner, but as I told them, they need more than that to come up with the funds they want.”

 

“You have any other ideas?” the principal asked, opening his laptop. Arthur shifted his weight.

 

“I've found local businesses that are willing to sponsor them,” Arthur said. “I've also found some organizations that help schools with fundraisers. Candy sales, special store discounts... There are a lot of places we can contact to get fundraisers started.”

 

The principal nodded and took the papers offered. He glanced over them, switching through the pages and finally looking back up at Arthur. “Let's make a deal,” he said, and Arthur nodded.

 

It was during the morning break that Arthur finally found Alfred. He had done more work on the fundraisers for the football team during his second period study session, and was ready to present it to the team (or at least Alfred) during the break. It wasn't that hard to find him; the moment he had walked into Alfred's homeroom, the students had glared at him, but given in quickly to his demands to find the freshman. They had all pointed to the track field, where the cheerleaders were practicing their routines for future competitions.

 

He stood at the top of the hill overlooking the field, and his eyes fell on a group of students that were watching the girls with fascination, and most likely a great deal of perversion. When he saw that the vice-president was in the middle of the group of men, he knew his assumption was correct.

 

The shouts and cheers that had been coming rather steadily from the group silenced when someone said something, and Arthur found himself the center of attention. He narrowed his eyes at them, summoning his best glare and making a point. There was uncomfortable shifting in the group, and then one blond with a cowlick and a pair of glasses rose from the group and jogged up the hill to him.

 

“Well?” Alfred asked, and Arthur shoved the envelope at him.

 

“I recommend the weekend of the third, personally,” Arthur told him. “You're more likely to get more people to come. No holidays, no interesting movies coming out, etcetera. I also talked to the principal, and he said that the school would be willing to match what you make, up to two-hundred dollars. It's not a lot, but it's better than nothing.” Alfred nodded slowly, and Arthur crossed his arms. “We also discussed another fundraiser that would probably get a lot of people involved. There's a program where a portion of online music sales are donated to the team. Sixty percent, or something close. The information's inside, you might be interested in that. If you need any more help, feel free to contact me.” Arthur waited a moment to see if Alfred would say anything, and when he didn't, he turned and walked away.

 

He could see the group of boys relax on the field below, and the thought that he received so much hate from them bothered him. He shoved his hands in his pockets as he trekked back to the school, and after a few minutes, he heard running. Alfred was running to catch up with him, and he slowed his pace so that the boy could meet him.

 

“The guys said it's fine,” Alfred said, and Arthur had to fight the urge to roll his eyes.

 

“I'm glad they like it,” he muttered, and turned to continue to the school building.

 

“We'll do it the third,” Alfred continued, not letting Arthur escape. “Will we get any help?”

 

“You can get help from sisters and parents if you want,” Arthur said. “Just remember that the school will not be doing it for you.”

 

“Right, right. Cool. And, what about that music thing? How do we sign up for that?”

 

“Read the information packet with your team, and have someone get back to me.”

 

“Right. Right.” Alfred nodded his head, and Arthur shooed him away with a hand motion. “So do I-”

 

“Everything's in the envelope. Read it before you ask me any more questions.” Arthur pushed open the door to the school and imagined that Alfred was glaring after him. Rather, he knew that Alfred was glaring after him. He had to beat back the voice in his head that said it was wrong, but he was used to that.

 

 

* * *

 

 

It wasn't a long drive to the doctor's office. Arthur stared out the window for the duration of the drive, wondering how his mother had found the guy. He only remembered the family doctor he had gone to in England, and wondered if the new person would be as good. He hoped he would be. He liked the short conversations they had had. It was a nice change from the mindless talk at school and home.

 

The office was a nice place, compared to the office he had imagined. He had thought that they would go to one of those cold buildings that stretched into the sky, with the drab grey walls and the smell of chemical cleaners. The place they went to was a lot better than that. The walls were a light tan, and the doctors that he could see were dressed casually, save for the identification badges and stethoscopes around their necks.

 

Arthur's mother shepherded him into the office, and he stole a chair by the door. His mother stepped up to the counter and spoke quickly, then she returned with a clipboard, a pen, and a sheet of paper. He took the clipboard in silence and cradled it in his arms, then he looked over the sheet.

 

A survey. He grimaced at the sheet and picked it up. He had always found surveys annoying and repetitive. He balanced the clipboard on his knee and scanned through the questions, marking off the answers as he passed them. _Do you drink milk, water, do you eat 5 servings of vegetables a day?_ It was the same everywhere. It was a mindless task, and he only hesitated when he reached the end of the page. He stared at the words on the sheet and wondered if they put the same questions on every other questionnaire. He glanced towards his mother, but she was reading some pamphlet she had grabbed from the counter.

 

_Do you have trouble sleeping?_

 

Arthur stared at the question. He didn't  _really_ have trouble. He just couldn't sleep, or he couldn't wake up. Perfectly normal. Hormones and shite like that. He marked off the  _no_ and moved to the next question.

 

_Do you have trouble communicating with people?_

 

He didn't even have to think about that one. When he wanted to get a point across, he got it across. Sure, people didn't like how he acted when he spoke, but it was still communication.

 

_Do you have trouble eating?_

 

No. He ate when he wanted.

 

_Have you ever attempted suicide?_

 

That one made Arthur stiffen. He looked towards his mother quickly, but she was still engrossed in that pamphlet. How many times had he looked at the knives in the kitchen? How many times had he thought about it, wondering what the best method would be, planning it out in his head?

 

_Have you ever thought about suicide?_

 

Every day. Every fucking day. Arthur quickly marked  _no_ on each question. There was no need to make a fuss about it. There was no need to make it a big deal. It was his business, not some quack doctor's. He scanned the rest of the paper. Nothing important. More on his eating habits. Nothing that should make them think he wasn't normal.

 

“Kirkland?” a woman asked from a hallway, and Arthur looked up. She motioned him over, and he left his mother. The woman led him down the beige halls, her ponytail bouncing on the back of her head as she welcomed him to the offices, then opened a door and ushered him inside. She took the completed questionnaire and disappeared. Arthur crossed his arms and sat down in the chair, a chill running down his spine, like a drop of ice-cold water. A part of his mind wanted him to check for cameras, wanted him to see if he was being watched.

 

He shushed that part. There was no need for paranoia. His questionnaire had been filled out properly, and he was normal. Nothing on that paper would imply that he was different. He was just a high schooler, waiting impatiently for a doctor that he no longer wanted to see. Arthur took a deep breath and waited.

 

Another nurse returned. He took Arthur's blood pressure and tested his reflexes. Arthur joked with him, idle chatter, normal conversation. Normal. Very normal. The nurse left him, and Arthur looked at the height chart. He was a couple centimeters shorter than he would have liked, but that wasn't important. He had lost some weight, but the move had been stressful. That could account for it.

 

He was staring at the weight and height charts on the wall when the door opened once more, and an elderly man with greying hair walked in. He grinned at Arthur, inviting him to sit down with a hand gesture. Arthur complied, and he saw that the man held the questionnaire in his hands.

 

“I see you don't smoke,” the doctor observed, and Arthur nodded. “Good. Very healthy. But, you don't drink milk?”

 

“Don't care much for the taste,” Arthur answered. “I get calcium through other means.” The doctor nodded and continued through the list, occasionally asking questions and waiting for answers.

 

“Your family history says there were some losses rather recently,” the doctor said, and he turned to another page. “Your grandfather and your uncle passed away a few years ago. Lung cancer and... suicide.” The doctor looked up, his brown eyes concerned under the fine grey eyebrows. “How are you handling that?”

 

Arthur looked at him for a moment, then he shrugged. “Pretty well, I suppose. Everyone has their ups and downs.”

 

“I heard you were close to your uncle.”

 

“We'd play football every so often,” Arthur dismissed the observation. The doctor blinked and Arthur quickly corrected himself. “Er, soccer, you call it.”

 

“Of course,” the doctor said, and he flipped back through the papers on the clipboard. “So, you've never thought about suicide?” he asked, and Arthur thought he heard something behind the question. He refused to pay it any mind, and he shook his head.

 

“Never,” he said.

 

“No trouble sleeping?”

 

“That's one thing I have no trouble with,” Arthur smiled, and the doctor chuckled.

 

“Right, right...” The doctor checked something off, and Arthur tried to ignore the nausea that rose within him.

 

This didn't feel right.

 

 

* * *

 

He was up late again that night. He scribbled notes in his binder and checked his e-mail for missed notes and assignments. He had turned off his overhead light to save power, and instead he kept on his desk lamp. His mother walked by in the hallway, and she paused outside his door. He stopped moving, not wanting to make a sound. She couldn't see his lamp from the hall; it gave off too little light to reach the door.

 

After a minute, his mother continued on to the bedroom she shared with his father, and Arthur continued his work. It wasn't ten minutes later that he heard their voices, raised and distorted through the walls and hallway. He didn't want to know what they were talking about, but he still found himself standing, and moving to his door.

 

He had never heard them speak in raised voices before. Hell, they had never stayed up until—he checked his watch—midnight before. He pressed his ear against the door, and he listened.

 

“What're you talking about?” his father asked in the room down the hall, his voice fading in and out. He was probably pacing.

 

“You can't tell me you haven't noticed.” His mother. His eyes widened slightly, and he lowered his chin. She sounded miserable. “God, Keith... Have you looked at him? Since David, and Dad-”

 

“If something was wrong he'd come for help,” his father said quickly.

 

“Has he ever come for help before?” his mother asked, her voice lower than before. “How many times have we come home to find him with a bloody nose? And he always refused to tell on his brothers. Even when he broke his arm-”

 

“That's a brother-”

 

“Even the doctor said it looked like something was wrong,” his mother muttered, and Arthur shrank back away from the door. “He said... Keith, we have to do something.”

 

“I thought the doctor said there was nothing wrong.” His father sounded almost confrontational.

 

“That's not what he said.” His mother's voice was much lower now. He could barely hear her. “Arthur's just become an excellent liar.”

 

Arthur stepped away from the door. He stared at it for a moment, then swallowed and returned to his desk. He flipped his English book open quickly and began to read, intent on forgetting the conversation.

 

But it was hard when his mother's voice, miserable and pained, repeated its words inside his head. “I wasn't lying,” he told himself as he turned the page of his book, not even reading the words that his eyes passed over. They blurred together into a mass of black and grey, and he blinked.

 

“I wasn't.”


	4. Chapter 4

Arthur had to suffer through meetings with his English and maths teachers the following day. He knew that making up his English work would be simple, but maths was another story. He hated the calculus, and couldn't understand why he had been placed in that level. He despised it, and barely scraped by with a low grade. He would have preferred anything but that class.

 

 

By the time he had settled himself in his office, he was mentally exhausted and glaring at a stack of papers as though they had wronged him somehow. Still on edge from the day before, he yanked the sack towards him and prepared himself to dive into it, and once again make enemies of the students. He didn't want to touch the pile, but he still found himself pulling the sheets apart, and reading through the notes within.

 

He wasn't expecting the door to be shoved open, and for Alfred to fall into the room with notebooks falling from his arms and hitting the floor with loud bangs. Arthur arched an eyebrow at the sight, and Alfred looked over his shoulder. His face was flushed, and Arthur was sure that he could hear laughter down the hallway. Alfred seemed to remember himself, and he quickly gathered his notebooks and put them in the bag slung over his shoulder.

 

“My friends are dicks,” Alfred announced, and Arthur stared at him. An awkward silence passed between them, and Alfred quickly tried to explain. “I mean, they just shoved- Well, they're just kinda jerks, and-”

 

“You're giving me a headache,” Arthur groaned. He rested his elbow on the desk and cupped his chin in his hand.

 

“-you weren't here yesterday!” Alfred finished, pointing at Arthur's head.

 

Arthur stared at him, wondering why he was so unfortunate to have gained such an annoyance. He wondered if jumping out the window would solve the problem, and tried to imagine it. What would Alfred do if he stood, unlocked the windows, and let himself fall to the pavement below? How shocked would the American be, seeing a classmate fall to his death? The thought was an intriguing one, and he was tempted to follow through with the idea.

 

“-and the girls said we needed to advertise, and offered stuff, and we need the information to get started. Are you listening?”

 

Arthur looked up when Alfred loomed over him, and the first thing he thought about was the fact that, despite being younger, Alfred was at least a few centimeters taller than him.

 

And he was waving around a hamburger while he spoke, the McDonalds paper crinkling with every motion. The smell caught up to him, and he wanted to gag. Instead, he settled for shifting his hand so that it covered his mouth and nose. He used his other hand to indicate that Alfred continue.

 

“We have to advertise the supper.”

 

Arthur waited, but Alfred didn't say any more. Instead, the teen rocked back and forth on his heels, the burger crammed in his mouth. Arthur shifted his hand slightly to speak. “I'll write down the information, and you can take it and design a poster.”

 

“Can you help?” Alfred asked, and he dropped into the chair on the opposite side of Arthur's desk.

 

“I'm busy.”

 

“Please?” Alfred leaned forward. “I don't know how t' design a poster.”

 

“I'm sure Feliciano Vargas would love to help,” Arthur muttered. “He's in the art club. He tried to start a petition to have the school serve pasta daily in the cafeteria, morning and lunch. I'm sure he'd be ecstatic. He'd probably insist on helping you make the spaghetti, too.”

 

Alfred looked to the side thoughtfully, pulling his burger away from his mouth. “That Italian guy? Acts like the Energizer bunny on speed?”

 

Arthur had no idea what Alfred was talking about, and he shrugged. “He's a sophomore,” he offered, and Alfred nodded slowly.

 

The two were silent, each waiting for the other to say something. Alfred hummed under his breath, then when it was obvious that Arthur wasn't going to say anything, he spoke. “So... You're going to help me, right?”

 

“I just told you I'm-”

 

Alfred dug around in his bag, setting his burger down on Arthur's desk. Arthur glared at the food, and then looked back at Alfred. He had pulled stacks of paper from his backpack, and then set them down beside the burger. Arthur stared at the brightly colored sheets and crossed his arms.

 

“What is this?”

 

“Paper for the printer.” Alfred grinned and pulled out a laptop. He turned it on, and waited for it to start up. “See, we design it on here, and then print it out an' put 'em around town. Sounds good, right?”

 

“Alfred, how many times do I have to tell you I'm busy?” Arthur groaned. Alfred scooted his chair around the desk, and set it in place so that he could sit beside Arthur.

 

“See, this program designs... stuff. Totally useful, right? So if we work on-”

 

“Alfred, I'm-”

 

“-and it'll be cool, right? Then we can go an' put 'em up.”

 

“Why isn't the team doing this with you?” Arthur demanded.

 

“Well... They want me in charge of public relations!”

 

Arthur didn't bother calling him out on his lie. It was rather obvious that the rest of the team wanted nothing to do with the fundraiser. He wanted to say that it was their loss, but he only felt guilty. He wished that he could have found something that they had actually been interested in. Maybe he had been too presumptuous in thinking that his ideas were actually interesting, and worth it. He felt rather humiliated by the entire thing. It burned in his chest, and he wanted to hide himself away from the world.

 

Arthur's thoughts were interrupted by the shrill cry of the bell, and Alfred looked up quickly. He grimaced and grabbed his bag and his burger. “I got class, gotta go!”

 

Arthur watched him leave with a frown, and he pulled the stack of folders closer. He shut the laptop that Alfred had left behind, and he pushed away the brightly colored sheets of paper.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Alfred dug through his bag of McDonalds as he walked through the halls. He waved to one of the teachers he passed, and he picked through the French fries within. He picked out one or two at a time and shoved them into his mouth, chewing vigorously and swallowing. He followed a strict pattern when he ate; if he took more than two, then he dropped them back inside and fished around again, until he had the proper number. Then he would bite off half, swallow, and finish. It was a habit from childhood, probably something from when his parents had been teaching him to count. “ _Only one at a time, Al,_ ” or something like that.

 

But who really cared? It didn't matter.

 

What _did_ matter was that he had to retrieve the laptop from Arthur's office. Matt had found out that he had taken it, and was _not_ pleased (even though Matt was the one with the cool programs on his laptop, the ones that he wanted for the posters; Alfred had only ever used his for the internet and movies). He figured he could talk to Arthur about the design anyway. Arthur seemed like a cool guy. He was funny as hell. Always shouting and grumbling—and his eyebrows were awesome. They were huge, yeah, but kinda cool, he supposed.

 

That, and Arthur seemed like the kinda guy that would help someone out in a pinch. Even if he acted like everyone else was scum (which was actually really funny, too). Alfred hummed to himself as he watched the doors he passed, then finally let his hand fall on the golden handle to Arthur's office. He was almost thankful that football practice had ended early. He loved playing, but they did need to get the posters made and put up so that they would get people to attend the dinner.

 

Alfred pushed open the door and started. He hadn't expected Arthur to stay so late. “Hey Arthur!” Alfred called out cheerfully, then he hesitated. Arthur was sprawled across his desk, and when he moved closer, he found that the Brit was sleeping. He arched an eyebrow in surprise. Arthur wasn't someone he would ever expect to sleep in front of someone else. It didn't seem like the kind of thing he would do.

 

Alfred shrugged and reached for the laptop, then stopped. Instead of taking the laptop, he reached farther, and picked up a small stack of papers. He leafed through them with wide eyes, tempted to whistle, but not wanting to wake up the sleeping teen. They were all advertisements for the dinner. All different, all with corrections marked. All were on plain white printer paper, and Alfred grinned.

 

Arthur was awesome.

 

 

* * *

 

 

The blade sliced through flesh and muscle. Arthur watched his hand work in silence, wincing when it scraped against hard bone. Deeper. Deeper. How much did he have to take away before he died? _Could_ he die from this? Did he have to try harder, work elsewhere? Was he supposed to go for the jugular instead? He looked at the pen on his desk, and he wondered if he was strong enough to force it through his neck. Wondered if that would work.

 

He left hand hung limply as blood streamed down it and dripped on the floor. He worried about the mess, but it would be simple to clean up. It was linoleum; a wet rag would erase the fact that it had ever been there. And if he failed at ending his own life, well... He would pick it up himself and hide the evidence.

 

How he hated pain. He wondered at how people could cut themselves, when they didn't intend to end their lives. Why go through such pain? He resented that they could do that. How could they do that, when he couldn't force the blade to touch his skin? But he was already bleeding, so he had already done it. He just couldn't finish it.

 

_Why couldn't he finish it?_

 

His body gave a jolt and there was a crash. He had struck out with a hand, and he blinked. He didn't raise his head, just looked around with his eyes, not moving his head. He had pushed a stack of papers to the floor. He was in his office, breathing heavily, trying to gain control of his racing heart. He brought his right hand to his left, but there was nothing. No blood. No gashes. Just a sleeve. He groaned and his hand touched a bag. He looked up to see a large golden “M” facing him, then he realized that he wasn't alone in the room.

 

Humiliation. Embarrassment. Fear. He couldn't name all of the emotions coursing through him, as he felt himself laid out before the blond that knelt on the floor before his desk. Alfred picked up the folders and stacked them, humming a tune under his breath.

 

“What the hell are you doing in here?” Arthur snapped, and Alfred looked up. The American grinned, then gathered the folders and set them on the desk.

 

“Awesome posters,”Alfred told him when he stood, and he waved the papers that Arthur had printed off before. “These would be totally awesome for the dinner!”

 

Arthur should have been pleased by the comment, but instead he felt himself sink. He hadn't spent much time on the posters. He had thought up some ideas, very briefly, and put them on paper. Alfred was probably lying. He had to be lying. After all, he had spent so little time on the posters, that they couldn't possibly be good. And if they  _were_ good, then what did that say about the things that he worked a long time on?

 

“Get your shit off my desk,” Arthur grumbled. He glanced towards the windows, but the darkness in the room told him all he needed to know. It was late; far too late for Alfred to be roaming the halls, and probably after the time that the school was supposed to be emptied. He stood and gathered his things, shoving them into the bag that had been dropped on the floor earlier in the day.

 

“So can we go copy these onto colored paper? You can do that on the copiers, right?”

 

Arthur wanted to refuse. He knew that he should; they were supposed to be gone, after all. But he couldn't really say no. It was already late, it wouldn't make a difference to simply wait ten minutes to make copies. Then, maybe, Alfred would finally leave him alone, after he had used him for what he needed.

 

“Fine.”

 

It took fifteen minutes to copy the posters over onto colored paper. Arthur ran the photocopier while Alfred watched, enchanted by the speed of the machine as it churned out paper after paper. “This is yours,” Alfred said after a few minutes, and Arthur found himself in possession of a McDonalds bag; the one from his desk. “Thought you might be hungry when you woke up.”

 

“Oh,” was all Arthur could spit out, and he stared at the bag. Alfred watched for a moment before he insisted it wasn't poisoned, and Arthur shrugged before opening the bag. He supposed it was just another way to lead to an early (but welcome) death.

 

“Totally awesome, right?” Alfred demanded, and Arthur shrugged his shoulders. At least he could tell his mother that he had already eaten, even though the food that went down his throat tasted like grime and trash.

 

“Thank you,” he forced himself to say, trying to make it seem as though he were a little bit courteous, even when he resented the gesture. With how Alfred pushed him to eat, he wondered if something had been done to it. That was how his brothers had always operated; why not Alfred?

 

While Arthur wondered about the other's motives, Alfred had gathered up the printed sheets and shoved them into his bag. Arthur didn't attempt to push Alfred away when he started for home, knowing that it was a futile effort. Alfred would just keep coming back, and Arthur would waste energy. He barely heard what Alfred was talking about; he was picturing burning metal and fire, and then a trip reawakened him to Alfred's voice.

 

“-around town and everything. We can hit the deli, and the grocery store'd let us put one up. Bet the sports store would let us put a couple up, helping local teams and stuff.”

 

Arthur wondered when “I” had become “we”, but it was too late to ask. They were at his house already, and he opened the gate and shut it behind him without a word. Alfred was unaffected by the cold goodbye, and waved before he ran off in the other direction.

 

Arthur avoided his mother's eyes when he entered the house. He went straight to his room and pulled the folders out once more to look through them. He had made a mistake in falling asleep in school; he still had work to do.


	5. Chapter 5

Arthur avoided television. There were good reasons for it. The United States had very _unique_ shows and movies. In other words, they were disgusting. Everything was sex driven, and unless someone was being delimbed, the American people apparently didn't want to watch it. As a result, tame movies were rare, and interesting shows were non-existent. He had watched the office in England, but the American series had nothing on the original. It was difficult to watch.

 

But what was worse was the fact that Americans apparently needed to advertise everything under the sun. It seemed that doctors were unreliable in this country, as the pharmaceutical companies had to advertise their medicines on the television.

 

Arthur's family had left for the day, shopping or some shite like that. He had been rather adamant in staying behind, and they had left him. He wasn't bothered by that fact; what he _had_ been bothered by was his mother's eyes. They were unreadable when she had watched him put the bread in the toaster, and then when he had cursed when the toast had come up black. He had been going to eat the toast until she intervened, easily sliding the toast into the trash can and digging through the refrigerator for leftover pancakes. She had probably been angry at him for stinking up the kitchen and getting crumbs everywhere.

 

Or she had been suspicious.

 

Arthur had settled himself in the living room before the television in an attempt to forget about her eyes. He had flipped through channels, looking for something to distract him. A fire fight with a serial killer, someone eating people, a woman seducing her boss for a promotion, a talking sponge bonding with his gay friend-

 

Nothing made any sense in this odd country. He had been there for almost a year, but nothing was any easier. He still burned with humiliation, deep in his stomach, when he recalled the first time he had asked for an eraser in one of his classes, as a junior.

 

Because they were called “erasers” here. “Rubbers” were condoms. The memory came back clearly, and he hung his head and willed himself to forget. The laughter, the taunting. But he had defended himself. He had said something about immature brats trying to find innuendos in innocent situations, had snapped at them. In that brief moment, he had shined. He had shined in a bad way, yes, but he had made his point; he had wanted nothing to do with them, and he would fight them with his tongue, lashing out when threatened, a snake.

 

God, how he hated what he had become in that instant.

 

He didn't want to be harsh. He didn't. He would rather be someone that could get along with people, someone that wasn't abrasive and cruel, _intentionally_ cruel. Arthur tried to change himself, little by little, but whenever those changes were tested, he reverted. He lashed out, tried to hurt them. He wanted to break the will of the people around him. He wanted to break them and he wanted to fall under their fists, all at the same time, muttering apologies and begging forgiveness.

 

Change was impossible, he had discovered long ago. It was impossible (for him, at least), to become the person you wanted to be. How would someone be looked at, if they tried to destroy someone one day, yet wanted to be friends the next? Change was an unattainable goal, and no matter how much he wanted to be better, deep down he knew that he would never be able to change into someone that was worthy of life.

 

Those thoughts were always present. They came hand-in-hand with the need for death, making his life miserable. They were probably what made him watch the commercials more. Arthur detested how the medications were always there, flaunting themselves before viewers. But they were a temporary distraction. Until he began to notice a pattern.

 

_Trouble communicating with people._

 

_Always miserable._

 

_Suicidal._

 

_Nothing works out in the end._

 

_Everything is dark._

 

He  _wasn't_ fucking depressed.

 

The thought made him want to sink into himself. He didn't want to acknowledge any of it, but what if it was true?

 

_Proloft. Zolash. Who the fuck cared?_ The ads related to everybody. They were like horoscopes—they were general observations that everyone could relate to. That was how the convinced people to buy. If everyone believed that they were depressed, then those companies made a profit.

 

_So why wouldn't the thoughts go away?_

 

Arthur hated his mind for putting him in such a difficult position. He flipped back through the channels to find the talking sponge. It was a children's show, so there shouldn't be any of the medication commercials on it. That would be wrong. And he needed something to distract him from the nausea that had taken root in the pit of his stomach. Even mindless children's shows had to offer something. Anything.

 

But all he could think about while watching the sponge dance around giddily, was how fucked up his life was, and how much easier it would be to end it.

 

 

* * *

 

“Posters.”

 

Arthur was tempted to shut the door on the teenager across from him. Alfred was holding up a stack of green and yellow fliers, grinning as though he had just won the lottery. Another teen was standing on the sidewalk, obviously wary of intruding on Arthur's property. From the glasses and the hair, Arthur guessed it was a twin. 

 

“Nice to see you know language. Go away.”

 

Alfred simply grinned at Arthur's wit, and he motioned with a hand. “Mattie and I 're gonna need some help putting everything up.”

 

“Isn't he on the hockey team? You have two teams to pick from.”

 

“Well, the hockey guys aren't that cool with the football guys, and the football guys are kinda busy.”

 

“Doing what?”

 

Alfred laughed. “Watching movies or somethin'. I don't know. So, you comin'?”

 

Arthur gave a resigned sigh and pulled his keys from the hook beside the door, then shoved his phone in his pocket. He locked the door behind him and left the house, waiting for Alfred to lead the way.

 

Alfred wasted no time in dragging Arthur alone with his brother, deciding to hit the main street and the other well travelled roads. Stores, gas stations, the town hall, and the library were all plastered in posters (Arthur had to keep reminding Alfred not to use staples). 

 

It was a long, tedious process, made worse by Alfred's attempts to sing a song about dancing, something that Arthur tried to ignore. It as difficult when said teen kept shouting lyrics into his ear. 

 

“Please tell me he's not always like this,” Arthur grumbled to himself, and he jumped when he received an answer from behind him.

 

“Sadly, he's like this _all_ the time.” Matthew was putting a poster in a store window, trying to juggle his roll of tape and the stack of papers while he taped the poster up. “He's impossible. Mom threatened to make him sleep in the garage until he got over his Gaga phase.”

 

Arthur wasn't exactly sure how to reply. He mumbled “really” under his breath and looked up at the sky. Rain, of course. The dark grey clouds move slowly over the city, stretching into the distance and blocking the sunlight and blue of the sky. Matthew followed his gaze and groaned, rubbing his forehead with a hand. Alfred was talking a young married couple on the sidewalk, and Arthur had a feeling that if left alone, the teen would probably end up going home with them. It was a somewhat amusing thought.

 

“Al!” Matthew called, and when the other looked back, Matthew pointed a finger to the sky. Alfred looked up, and then he jogged back towards them. Matthew began to shove the posters into plastic bags.

 

“Well then, I'll be heading home,” Arthur told them, but Alfred grabbed his elbow before he could take a single step.

 

“Our place is closer,” Alfred said cheerfully. “Might as well come with us. Mom an' Dad aren't home, but we have some frozen pizzas and stuff.”

 

“It's fine,” Arthur insisted. “I can head home and-”

 

The rain started, and in a moment, all three boys were drenched with water. Alfred grinned. “See? Our place 's closer.”

 

 

* * *

 

Alfred's house was smaller than Arthur's. It was understandable; there were only four people in Alfred's family, and six in Arthur's (not including his sister, who had moved to Ireland for university). It was a nice house, and Arthur imagined it was very comfortable.

 

He simply couldn't relax inside. He was imposing, and felt guilty for walking inside in wet clothes. The wood flooring was probably going to be ruined by the water from his clothes (because the water from the twins' clothes wouldn't mar the surface, he was simply unfortunate), and he felt like he was intruding in a place where he had no right to be. His discontent worsened when Alfred shepherded him to a bathroom and shower, shoving clothes into the room and telling him that he would be back after he took his own shower in another bathroom.

 

Arthur didn't know what to do. Did he take a shower, and risk having his picture taken naked? Was this all leading up to one grand set-up, one that could ruin his life forever? He hesitantly removed his clothes. Matthew had said he would wash them while they waited for the rain to pass, and Alfred had left him clothes. Arthur squeezed his underwear free of wait in the sink, and set them near a heater. He was not going to be caught without them in Alfred's clothes; that was disgusting, and rude.

 

The shower was warm, but lasted for only a couple minutes. He didn't dare run the water any longer, and worried about using their oil, or whatever they used to heat the house. He dried himself quickly with the towel that one of the brothers had given him, then folded it up and set it aside. His underwear was still damp, but he could deal with that. He pulled the pants up, then used his own belt to keep them up. The shirt was too big, and he swallowed. Alfred had muscles. He wished he had  _something_ to be proud of. But he was just an unlucky brat with no redeeming qualities, which was just as well.

 

Arthur left the bathroom to find Matthew in the kitchen, wandering back and forth in his wet clothes as he shoved a pizza into the oven. He immediately felt guilty. He should have asked Matthew to go first.

 

But Matthew looked pretty happy about the entire thing. He took the clothes and towel and (presumably) put them into the wash, before he left to take Arthur's place in the shower. 

 

It wasn't long before both brothers were returning, with new clothes and combed hair, and growling stomachs. Arthur stood back and watched them as they stared at the oven timer, counting each second down to lunch.

 

“Least we got those posters up,” Alfred said to Arthur, and Arthur nodded. Then he jumped.

 

The cellphone on the end of the counter (Arthur's) was vibrating. Arthur stared for a moment, then reached down and pick it up. He stared at the display for a long time before he finally clicked “silence”, and Matthew opened the oven door.

 

“Your parents?” Alfred asked cheerfully, but Arthur shook his head.

 

“Wrong number.”

 

Alfred nodded and Arthur pushed the phone aside. He felt bad. Lying, deceit, none were good qualities. He had silenced the ringtone every time the phone rang. He had feigned sickness when he had still been in England; when he had crossed the Atlantic, he had pretended the number had changed. He had pretended that he never existed.

 

Mathias would never be able to hunt him down. His cellphone was the only number that had remained the same. The family line had changed, his mother had bought everyone new phones (he had refused one).

 

He didn't know why he avoided Mathias. The guy had always been a good friend. A hellraiser, sometimes. But he just couldn't answer that phone. There was a dull ache in his body whenever he saw the international code, and he turned the phone away and distracted himself with something else. He isolated himself, and told himself that he liked it that way.


	6. Chapter 6

Arthur had never had pizza before. He wasn't sure _what_ to make of the thing that came out of the oven; he knew that his brothers liked it when they had it, but he had never bothered to try it. He didn't dare turn it down when Matthew placed a plate before him. He was already imposing on their kindness, and he didn't want to be rude as well.

 

“Good?” Alfred pressed when Arthur took a bite. Arthur nodded and Alfred grinned. “Cool!” Alfred started to pile chips ( _French fries_ , Arthur had to remind himself) on Arthur's plate, making the other wonder if there was an ulterior motive hidden somewhere behind the glasses. Maybe Alfred was trying to make him sick, thereby getting him out of the school so that they could cause panic and mass hysteria.

 

“I'll have to leave soon,” Arthur murmured, and Alfred looked towards the window in the kitchen.

 

“The sky's completely black,” Alfred told him. “It's pouring out.”

 

“Rain's not a problem,” Arthur said. He wiped his hands on a paper towel that Matthew had given him, and he rolled back the sleeves of the shirt he wore. Then he returned to the food before him, missing how Matthew glared at his brother.

 

“Hang out until the rain stops,” Alfred said. “Don't wanna get sick. Besides, I wanted to ask you somethin'. Are you comin' to the dinner?”

 

Arthur pretended to think about it. “I'm busy that day,” he lied. “I have to meet with someone.”

 

“Oh.” Alfred looked put out for a moment, but quickly perked up. “So, there's a game right before the dinner, that Friday night. You wanna check it out? You should see how awesome the team is, we're gonna blow the other guys away-”

 

Arthur tuned him out as he ate. He and Matthew concentrated on eating while Alfred went on and on about heroics on the football field, leaving Arthur to his thoughts. Being in their house didn't feel right. He was sure that they had felt obligated to bring him in from the rain, because he had been there, wet, with them. They probably hadn't wanted him near their house. He needed to finish, get back in his own clothes, and flee the house.

 

“Let's watch a movie while we wait for the rain to stop!” Alfred suddenly decided, and Arthur looked over. Matthew had scowled at the suggestion, taking a rather aggressive bite out of his pizza.

 

“I'm not sleeping with you again, dumbshit,” Matthew snapped. When Alfred looked back at him in confusion, he continued. “Last time you push me out of bed and took all the blankets! Then when I went to get in _your_ bed, you got up and followed me, then did the same thing! Tonight I'm locking my door!”

 

Alfred looked lost for words, something Arthur was sure wasn't a common occurrence, and then Alfred shrugged. “Why would I-”

 

“We're not watching _Signs_ ,” Matthew growled, and Alfred looked down at the cover of his movie. “But I like-”

 

“ _We're not watching Signs_ ,” Matthew hissed, and Alfred began to dig through the cabinets for another movie. Arthur tried not to look obvious as he looked between the brothers in confusion, and Matthew answered the unspoken question. “He can't handle scary movies,” Matthew said. Arthur acknowledged the information with an “Ah,” and Alfred protested the “lie” with shouts.

 

 

* * *

 

 

His mother hadn't returned by the time Arthur got home, and he was fine with that. He changed his clothes into something dry, then threw the dirty ones into the washing machine. He had lied in order to leave the Jones's house, saying that a car parked at a neighbor's house had been his ride. Then he had booked it down the road, using a hand to shield his eyes from the pounding rain.

 

He crawled into bed when he had finally changed, letting the darkness of the storm clouds trick him into thinking it was midnight. He ignored the clock that told him it was only seven, and he turned his face into his pillow. He idly wondered if laying face-down into a pillow could smother him in his sleep, then imagined what would happen if his mother found him the following morning, dead from sleeping. She would probably be excited.

 

Arthur sighed and turned over to stare at the wall. It felt like hours that he laid there, staring at the wall and unable to sleep. He had heard someone outside the door once, but had made no sound. He had pretended to sleep in case they had entered, but they had walked away.

 

Of course.

 

Upon Arthur's return to school, he managed to avoid Alfred. He wandered the halls of the school, trying to ignore how people would glare openly at him when he passed. He tried not to see how teams would pick up the pace during their practices or meetings, trying to keep their funding (Arthur wouldn't have cut it, anyway). He couldn't ignore the words whispered behind his back. He heard every foul word, every curse. He was hurt, but he couldn't let them bother him outside. He could internalize things, and then he could slowly force himself to forget.

 

He had a constant migraine. Arthur kept a bottle of ibuprofen in his pocket at all times, and kept his office dark when he worked. He could imagine what the other students thought; he was taking drugs, and was stoned in the office. Hence the lack of lighting. He tried not to think of what they talked about, but his mind refused to stop. Everyone was an enemy, everyone hated him. Trust no one, rely on himself. That was all he could do.

 

Arthur sat alone during Friday night's game. He ignored the harsh glares sent his way by both the team and spectators alike, but he _did_ notice that Alfred gave a happy wave when their eyes met. Arthur huffed at the sight, knowing that Alfred was an idiot. He just wasn't aware of how hated Arthur was; he was still a freshman, and Arthur's disgusting self hadn't been revealed through classmates.

 

Arthur did discover one thing that night, and it was that he hated American football. In fact, he hated all sports. Football? Sucked. Tennis? Shitty sport. Anything with balls? Pathetic and quite possibly homoerotic. He chuckled weakly to himself at the last thought, then stared at the tree line on the opposite end of the field, completely ignoring the game going on. His mother had said something about a doctor, so he would be alone when he returned home. His father had taken to spending Friday nights at a local pub, while his brothers went out with girlfriends (or whatever the hell they did, he didn't really care). Arthur would be alone to do as he pleased, without anyone to interrupt or bother him.

 

Arthur practically jumped from his skin when the last whistle of the game blew, and he looked back towards the players. Alfred was looking around for something, and he checked the score. It appeared that they had won, though Arthur wasn't sure how the hell they had done it. He didn't care, and left the bleachers in silence. He jammed his hands into his pockets and started the long trek home.

 

Nothing mattered anymore. He just didn't care. People were tools and idiots. Sports meant nothing, when life was going to end eventually. No one would care who had succeeded at American football when the earth was being destroyed by an imploding sun. He kept his head down as he walked, and slipped into his house easily. He hung his jacket on the hook by the door and listened to the silence. It was almost eerie, how silent the house was. So silent and empty, devoid of life.

 

How had his uncle felt? Arthur shivered at the thought. How had he felt, when he had pulled the trigger and blasted away his skull? Had he felt _anything?_ They had said he was drunk, trying to drown his sorrows. Arthur doubted it. He was sure the alcohol had been an excuse; it had loosened his inhibitions, making it easier to say goodbye to a place he hated. He had said goodbye to life and family, never intending to return.

 

Arthur searched the kitchen for food, hopefully something that even _he_ couldn't burn. He searched through drawers and cupboards, and faintly remembered his mother saying something about groceries. He sighed and shut the cupboard door, then his eyes fell on a tray of knives by the sink.

 

How had it felt? The questions always filled his mind. His uncle had been thorough in his death. He had cut through the skin on his wrists and arms before pulling the trigger, intent on having one thing or the other kill him. He had been found in his bathroom, a bloody mess, his skull-

 

Arthur swallowed and tried to ignore the burning in his throat. He took one of the knives and stared at the blade. He pressed it to the skin on his wrist, wondering how it had felt. When he thought of his uncle, it was always about feeling.

 

Knives hurt.

 

Arthur cursed and pulled the knife away from his skin. Blood began to seep from the wound he had made, a two-inch cut, not even deep. He hated himself for his weakness in that moment, and could feel his emotions drop to a new low. He let the blood wash away in the sink, and cleaned the knife before cramming it into the dishwasher. He used a paper towel to apply pressure to his wrist, and then he made his way upstairs to his room.

 

So pathetic. He had thought so many times about how he had wanted to die, how he had wanted to give up. Yet he wasn't strong enough to pick up the knife. He was scared of the pain and the feeling of metal cutting through skin.

 

He laughed at himself in his bedroom, not at all amused. He wanted to die, but he couldn't even get that right. How much more pitiful could he get?

 

 

* * *

 

 

He skipped the dinner, just as he had said he would. Arthur was sure that Alfred would finally back off. He had gotten what he wanted from Arthur, and there was no need to spend more time with him.

 

Except that the American was waiting in the office when he arrived there from his maths class. Arthur had stared at him for a long time, and then Alfred had stood, thinking that he wanted his chair back.

 

He hadn't cared about the chair. He had been astounded by the fact that Alfred was still there, but depressed by the fact that Alfred probably just wanted more from him.

 

“Hey, 've you seen the ads for that new movie?” Alfred asked excitedly. “With Bruce Willis? It's coming out today, and Mattie doesn't want to go with me, an' no one else will go, so d'you wanna go?”

 

Arthur said nothing as he sat down at his desk and let his bag fall on the floor. He fingered the bottle of pills in his pocket, and tried to think up an excuse. When nothing came, he shrugged.

 

“What time?” he asked, not at all enthusiastic. It would be time spent away from home, at least. Though that also meant time away from studying.

 

“Five-thirty,” Alfred said. “Meet me at the Cinemax, right? Awesome, gotta get t' class, bye!” Alfred ran from the room without waiting for an answer, and Arthur sighed. Everyday seemed to get worse.


	7. Chapter 7

Arthur told his mother he was going out. He shrugged when she asked what he was doing, then fled before she could press the issue. He left the house early, using Alfred's invitation as both an excuse to escape, and a reason to hate himself even more. He didn't like the idea that he would be taking up Alfred's time, but he needed to get out of the house and away from his family.

 

Everything was beginning to weigh down on his mind. People watched him with wide eyes, confused; others, complete strangers, couldn't hide their contempt. It was like being on a stage, where every weakness and flaw was put forth to be criticized and hated. Even the televisions and newspapers were against him. Whenever he tried to watch television, people screamed for him to get medication and drugs. When he opened a magazine or newspaper, he was met with statistics on suicide and depression, with _even more_ advertisements for drugs.

 

Arthur tried to ignore them. He tried to eliminate the fear nestled securely in his chest, and he tried not to think of anything. He tried not to think of the misery and resentment towards other people. Tried not to think of how he would sleep, and wake up more tired than before. Tried not to think about the suicidal thoughts, or how easy it would be to take one small step into the street, and find his end with screeching tires and cold metal.

 

_So easy._

 

“You're early.”

 

Arthur looked up and stopped quickly. A woman ran into him from behind and gave him a dirty look before continuing on, and his apology died in his throat. Alfred was waving to him in surprise, sipping from a large bottle of  _something_ that Arthur really didn't want to identify.

 

“I thought traffic might be heavy. Smartest thing to do is arrive early, so as not to miss anything.” Arthur's words came out as a sneer, and Alfred's expression drooped slightly before gaining enthusiasm.

 

“Well, at least you're here! We can get the best seats now!”

 

“What are we watching?” Arthur asked, and Alfred seemed to hesitate. But only for a moment.

 

“ _Shadows of the Wild_ ,” Alfred told him. “See, the team said it was an awesome movie, but they bet that I wouldn't watch it. So, I get to watch it today, and when I show them the ticket stub, they buy me lunch! Simple, right?”

 

Arthur shrugged. “What's it about?”

 

Alfred grinned. “Not much.”

 

The bet that Alfred had deemed “simple” was a lot harder than he had thought. In fact, it bordered on impossible. Arthur had to sit in silence while Alfred clung to his arm, wide eyes glued to the screen as a women screamed and tried to hide under a table, arranging the cloth to hide herself.

 

“You fucking screamed, he knows exactly where you are,” Arthur mumbled, and Alfred's grip tightened.

 

“Is she gonna die?” Alfred hissed, and Arthur looked over. He simply stared at the American, and Alfred seemed to grow more frantic. “Is she gonna die?!”

 

“Yes,” Arthur said dryly, and Alfred looked up in time to see a sword plunge through the top of the table and impale the woman beneath it. He shivered violently, and Arthur sighed.

 

_So stupid._

 

“Let's leave,” Arthur whispered, wanting nothing more than to leave the theater, and not have to listen to Alfred's whines and whimpers.

 

“I have to finish it,” Alfred whispered back. “I have to know the ending, or I don't get lunch!” He buried his head in his arms when there was a scream, and Arthur sighed again. He couldn't imagine what had possessed him to agree to this. At least he didn't have to hang out at home.  
 

* * *

 

“Wanna get dinner?” Alfred seemed far too cheerful considering he had been trying to hide under his chair for the better part of three hours.

 

“It's nine o'clock,” Arthur muttered, checking his cell phone. There were text messages from his mother, and he opened one. She wondered when he'd be home, where he was.

 

“I'll pay,” Alfred said quickly, and Arthur shrugged.

 

“Fine.” He sent his mother a message and told her he'd be home later. He didn't go into detail, but he knew she wouldn't press the issue. She never did.

 

Arthur followed Alfred through unfamiliar streets, and they found themselves at a McDonald's. He was tempted to turn around and head home, admonishing himself for not knowing considering Alfred ate the food every day, but he was sure it would be rude. He had already agreed to eat with Alfred, he couldn't just back out.

 

“So, what d'you want?” Alfred asked eagerly when they entered, and his eyes searched the menu above the register.

 

“I have money, don't worry about it,” Arthur mumbled. He pulled bills from his pocket, smoothing them out in his fingers and looking up. Everything looked repulsive, but refusing to order would likely put him in a sour mood, and would probably make Alfred rather put out. Alfred hesitated before ordering, and Arthur waited patiently for his turn.

 

When he finally ordered his food (a fish sandwich, french fries, and a root beer), he paid with the slightly-wrinkled bills and tried not to look at the woman behind the register. He kept his eyes on the counter, and waited for the food to come. He took his tray and followed Alfred to a table, setting the tray down and sitting silently.

 

Alfred never stopped talking even with food in his mouth. Arthur ate slowly, wiping his fingers on his napkin every time he touched the greasy fries, or whenever he got crumbs on his hands from the sandwich bun. He wondered why he had let himself get pulled long by Alfred's childishness. He had no need for the other's attention. In fact, he didn't want it. He was better off alone, without anyone bothering him, or without bothering anyone else. Interacting with people could do no good, and was probably a dangerous thing.

 

He tried not to look at Alfred, and see how his mouth moved, full of food, as he talked. Disgusting. _Distracting._

 

Alfred Jones was a distraction. Alfred was what Arthur had envisioned the president's seat to be: when he was with Alfred, he couldn't think of death and suffering. His mind would be too busy concentrating on other things, like what he would do if Alfred asked a random question, how he would respond if Alfred asked his opinion. Many things. Alfred was spontaneous and abrupt, and always on his toes. Arthur's mind was forced to leave behind the thoughts of self-harm and misery in his presence, because he had to concentrate.

 

It was tiring. It was what he had wanted as the president. It gave him a small window of time in which he didn't have to hate himself too violently.

 

Alfred had appeared to finish his tirade, and he looked expectantly at Arthur with a mouthful of burger, and a smile on his face. Arthur quickly took a bite of his sandwich to delay, and he shrugged.

 

“I guess,” Alfred said, and Arthur assumed his shrug had actually meant something. “So, the game's Saturday. You should really come, 'cause the other guys don't wanna watch hockey with me, an-”

 

“I don-”

 

“Just come!” Alfred seemed far too happy, and Arthur sighed. He agreed to go, but he was sure his presence would not be appreciated.

 

It took only five minutes to convince Alfred that he didn't need to be chaperoned on his way home. He walked in silence, smelling of grease and popcorn butter, and he felt dirty. He wanted to drown himself to rid himself of the smell and the feeling, the unpleasant smell. He made a point not to talk to his mother when he returned home. She watched television in the living room; he passed behind the couch she was on without making a sound, and he crept to his room before anyone could realize that he was home.

 

 

* * *

 

 

The rest of the week passed with a relative peace. Autumn was slowly leaving as the days got colder, and Arthur had to search through his closet for the thick coat he had from the last winter. He didn't wear it, but kept it out in case the snow came early again; Alfred had also mentioned that he should wear a thick coat for his brother's hockey game. There was supposed to be snow in the coming weeks, apparently. Thanksgiving was supposed to come with the snow, and Arthur shivered at the thought of it. He hated snow. Hated winter. It was worse here, than it had been in England. England had always been better, even if it was a bad place. England would always be better.

 

Arthur left the house Saturday with no obstacles. His mother wasn't home, his brothers didn't care. He searched through the city for the ice rink, almost getting lost in the place he had never bothered to explore. It was a mile away from the rink that Alfred found him, and the American dragged him to the rink with a grin and a bottle of soda.

 

Arthur had never expected that Matthew would be in such violent sport. He had thought the twin was a lot more tame than his brother, easier to be around. He had probably just applied his own thoughts to the teen. Matthew was quiet, but weren't quiet people intellectuals? He was sure he had heard of Matthew having fairly good grades, so why did he...

 

Arthur had to tell himself to stop thinking, lest he depress himself even more and mistakenly insult someone. Alfred was talking in his ear about standings and goals, every so often adding in that football was better, but hockey was still okay. Arthur listened to every word, hating himself for clinging to Alfred's voice, but needing to not think, and to let his mind be filled with the words of someone else for a change. Someone that was better than him.

 

The game seemed to pass quickly, and Arthur had had his fill of men slamming into walls and Matthew shouting victoriously above the roaring crowds. He parted from Alfred when the other went to congratulate his twin on their win, and wandered back through the streets to return home. He said nothing to his parents when he returned, and simply returned to his room, dropping his jacket on his desk chair and then dropping down into his bed.

 

He hated his home. Suffocating, cold, hot, uncomfortable. He could never describe what the place did to him, but he could feel everything change when he passed through the doors and into the hall. When he removed his shoes, and found his way up the stairs to his room.

 

He hated the outside world. He hated the laughter and the happiness. He hated the happy families, the people that loved each other, that still had their uncles and their grandparents, yet mistreated them, ignored them until it was too late, and they were standing above a hole in the ground, watching casket after casket after casket being lowered into the ground, before their time should have come.

 

He hated how he could step into that outside world and feel a little bit of peace, only to be thrust back into reality when he returned to his home, emotions plummeting and dying when he crossed the threshold. From slightly happy to downright miserable, a rollercoaster of emotions and hatred, a hatred that tore at his skin and ate away at him from both inside and out, hating himself, and being hated.

 

He rested his elbows on his knees in his room and rocked slowly, back and forth, front to back. He couldn't describe the emotions contorting and tearing through him. All he knew was that something was breaking, and he wanted no part of it.

 

When Monday morning came, he didn't leave his room. His mother opened his door, and he looked up from his blankets, eyes almost closed with the sleep he so desperately wanted, _needed_.

 

“I can't go,” he mumbled. “Can't do it.”

 

She nodded to him and shut the door.

 

He stayed home that week, and then Thanksgiving vacation came.


	8. Chapter 8

Arthur could only view it as a joke. One that he refused to take part of. 

 

His mother was excited by Thanksgiving, and had been in the kitchen for hours the night before, making breads and pies and looking up how to cook different foods and how to prepare a turkey.

 

Arthur found it impossible to get excited for a holiday he had never celebrated before, a holiday he so _detested_ simply because it was _American_. It wasn't a holiday from home; it was different, and he hated it. He wanted nothing to do with a holiday that celebrated American origins, because _he wasn't American._ He was from England, born and raised! He had had no choice in their move across the Atlantic. He hadn't insisted on fleeing his own country to escape the memories of dead relatives. He would have been fine remaining on the island nation. He would have _never_ chosen to run away.

 

Celebrating the holidays of a country that was not his own felt like surrender and betrayal. He had left behind his grandfather and his uncle, and he was sure that he would forget them in time. He didn't want to, but fear gripped him so that he couldn't believe anything else. He didn't want to give in to this other country's culture (if that's what it could be called), and he didn't want to give up his roots. His roots, he firmly believed, were his own, and his mother could not force him to give them up.

 

But he was sure she was trying. She kept insisting that he help her cook, or that he help decorate the house with fake vegetables and incense holders. He refused her, and after she had turned her bright green eyes on him to ask for more help, he had excused himself from the house and fled, his cellphone turned off in his pocket.

 

Arthur didn't know how long it was that he walked through the cold streets of the town, his hands jammed into the deep pockets of his jacket. He removed his hands only once to button the front against the bitter cold, then he kept his head down and watched his feet while he travelled. His throat hurt, but he didn't know if the pain was from the cold or something else entirely.

 

His mother wouldn't follow him. No one in his family would hunt for him, and he wasn't sure if he should be happy or incredibly depressed because of that knowledge. His brothers hated him, his mother didn't want to be near him, his father didn't care. Walking away was easy when no one wanted to follow.

 

Arthur wondered if he had it in him to just keep walking. He could just leave the stupid town and get lost, somewhere people wouldn't find him and know him. He had heard somewhere that freezing to death was the best way to go. He had read it online somewhere. If you just kept walking into a forest and didn't turn back, then the internal organs would slowly fail as the body lost sensation and feeling. Death would take the victim, and it would be over before they knew it.

 

He wanted to. _God_ , he wanted to do it. He wanted nothing more than to walk into some forest and keep going, until there was nothing left of him. He wondered if there were wolves, if they would remove his body before anyone could find him. He hoped there were, and he stopped walking.

 

The sky was grey. Arthur let himself rest against the stone wall that lined the street, and he watched as a car drove by, piled with children and parents. They were probably visiting relatives for the holiday. He refused to say that he envied them. That he envied their laughter, and their family. He turned away and lowered his head, pushing himself off the wall and setting off once more. He wandered aimlessly through the streets he had never wanted to become familiar with, streets he had never wanted to look at. He wanted to get lost in a maze, where he couldn't return, and wouldn't have to face the world and its people ever again. He stepped on and off curbs and sidewalks, his face turning bright red from the cold. He was sure it would have appeared comical to people; such a pale person, likely deprived of sunlight, turning a brilliant red in the cold of this god-forsaken town.

 

Arthur's feet led him to a park he had never seen before, and he stared silently at the benches and the play structures that were sprawled out across the dead and yellowed grass. He had left the street for a small path, and trees surrounded the park as though it were a safe haven for outcasts and misfits, in a town of people too saintly for their presence.

 

Arthur's legs felt like jelly as he slowly walked over and collapsed on a bench. He kept his hands on his knees, and he stared down at his feet. He sat in silence, uncomfortable, until he carefully shifted and lowered his back so that he was laying lengthwise on the bench. He stared up at the grey sky with dull, unseeing eyes, and he tried to silence the voice in his head that demanded he do something.

 

He dreamed without sleeping.

 

* * *

 

Arthur settled down at the table and stared listlessly at the food spread out before him. His stomach shivered within him, the smell of grease and oil making him feel lightheaded and weak.

 

“Arthur, potatoes?” his mother asked him, and he looked at her. She waited for an answer, then wrinkled her nose in disgust and turned to one of his brothers. He looked down at his empty plate, and he wondered if there was some way to escape, some way to-

 

“Artie!”

 

Arthur was jolted to attention when someone walked into the dining room. His mother ignored the arrival, and Arthur was struck by green eyes. Green eyes and dark hair, a smile like a god; then Arthur was knocking over his chair in his haste to get to him, scrambling past his brothers and ignoring his mother's tsk of disappointment.

  
\---  
  


_Not like that._

 

Arthur blinked, the sky above him coming into focus momentarily before he could stop it. He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to think, tried to reimagine the scene.

 

_I would be calm. Have to be calm._

 

\---  
 

Arthur settled down at the table and stared listlessly at the food spread out before him. His stomach shivered within him, the smell of grease and oil making him feel lightheaded and weak.

 

“Arthur, potatoes?” his mother asked him, and he looked at her. She waited for an answer, then wrinkled her nose in disgust and turned to one of his brothers. He looked down at his empty plate, and he wondered if there was some way to escape, some way to-

 

“Artie!”

 

Arthur was jolted to attention when someone walked into the dining room. His mother ignored the arrival, and Arthur was struck by green eyes. Green eyes and dark hair, a smile like a god; Arthur swallowed, and he took a breath.

 

“Uncle James.”

\---

 

_Too formal._   
  


\---

 

Arthur was jolted to attention when someone walked into the dining room. His mother ignored the arrival, and Arthur was struck by green eyes. Green eyes and dark hair, a smile like a god; Arthur slowly pushed his chair away from the table, and he stood and slowly walked over to the man.

 

“Uncle James,” Arthur said, and the taller man pulled him into a bone-crushing hug.

 

\---  
 

_But what would we do after that?_

 

Arthur dreamt of the same scenario, over and over. But every time it stopped with a hug, and him wondering how to continue. Would they return to England together? Would they go out for ice cream, or try to find a place where they could sit back and talk, and just hang out?

 

He would've liked this park.

 

Arthur's throat burned, and he tried to swallow the growing lump. The sky fell out of focus once more as he tried to imagine what it would be like to have James back, and he tried to ignore how his eyes itched. He tried to ignore the moisture, and the burning, and the pain, but it was impossible. It was a daily aspect of his life, something that would never leave him.

 

He fought the tears. He refused to let them free, refused to let that part of himself go. He would  _not_ cry, would  _not_ let himself go.

 

Arthur wiped away the single tear with his glove, and blinked away anything else that threatened to come. His jaw ached, and he shut his eyes. He refused to acknowledge the steps that were approaching, and wondered if the approaching stranger would think that he was sleeping.

 

“Artie!”

 

Arthur tried to ignore the voice, the infuriatingly stupid voice that wouldn't leave him alone, along with the bastard it belonged to, and-

 

“Whatcha doin'?” the voice continued, until its owner was standing above him. “It's a bit cold to be sleeping out here.”

 

It figured that Alfred wouldn't let him “sleep.”

 

“Go _away_ , Alfred,” Arthur mumbled. He covered his closed eyes with his forearm, and tried to somehow ease the tension in his body. “And my name's not fucking “Artie”.”

 

“Seriously, it's fucking cold out,” Alfred continued. “Why don't you... I dunno. But it's supposed to snow. You'll turn into an icicle or something.”

 

“Mind your own business.” The tension wouldn't leave. It stayed in his chest, burning and aching. He wanted it gone, wanted to do _something_ to solve the problem. He wanted to be alone, and he wanted Alfred gone.

 

“Hey, Mom's making cinnamon rolls! You want some?”

 

Arthur let his arm slide away from his eyes, and he glared up at the American that stood over him.

 

“No, Alfred, I do not want any.”

 

Alfred deflated slightly, and the grin that had been on his face slipped. He scratched his neck, and shifted a large paper bag that was held between his arm and hip.

 

“Really? But her cooking rocks. You should come over for breakfast, seriously. I mean, we can watch the Macy's parade and stuff. You _have_ to taste her food, it's _awesome_. Last time you were over you just had pizza, which is awesome, but not as awesome as her food, and _homemade bread_.” Alfred grinned, and rested his free hand on his hip. “Come on! It'll be fun!”

 

Arthur sighed and sat up, running his hand through his hair slowly. “I suppose,” he mumbled, and Alfred yanked him to his feet and began to drag him through the streets. Arthur just let it happen. It wasn't worth the fight.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Alfred's mother was a kind woman by the name of Karen. She didn't look at all surprised by Arthur's appearance in her house; in fact, she seemed pleased by the company. Arthur took that to mean that Alfred was prone to bringing home strangers.

 

“The rolls are coming out of the oven,” she greeted them when they entered the house, and she took the bag from Alfred with a smile. “So, who's this?”

 

“Arthur,” Alfred said, and Karen nodded.

 

“From the dinner?”

 

“Yep!” Alfred grinned as he looked back at Arthur, and Karen opened the bag to reveal various cans of vegetables and pie fillings. She looked at Arthur and pressed her fingers to her lips.

 

“Don't tell anyone,” she whispered when she began to open the cans, and she laughed. Alfred had snuck over to the oven to peer inside at the rolls, and Karen dumped a can of beans into a pot. “So, are you staying for lunch? Or is your family having their dinner then?”

 

Arthur stared at her for a moment, confused, and then he shook his head. “No, I was just out for a walk. My family doesn't celebrate Thanksgiving, so-”

 

“You have to stay for Thanksgiving lunch!” Alfred burst when he had turned around, depositing the tray of rolls on the counter. “You'll love it! Thanksgiving is awesome, and you'll fit right in!”

 

“I really can't,” Arthur said, but Karen was smiling at him, the same smile that Alfred was giving him. The tension in his chest seemed to grow, and he thought of the cellphone in his pocket; it was turned off, they wouldn't be able to reach him.

 

His family already knew he wanted nothing to do with them.

 

“If it's not a problem,” he finally gave in, and Alfred grinned.

 

Arthur tried to ignore the guilt bubbling within.


	9. Chapter 9

Arthur had been pulled into carrying pots and pans to the dining room table, helping Karen arrange them while Matthew and Alfred wandered through the house. Karen easily pulled Arthur into conversation, asking him about school and his house, and other topics that really made no sense but served to fill the silence.

 

 

The table was piled with pots and pans, and finally a large tray that held a turkey. Arthur stared at the cooked bird, and then Karen invited him to sit beside her. When Alfred finally found his way to the table with the rest of the family (Arthur wondered where they had disappeared, but didn't dare ask), Alfred sat on Arthur's other side. His father (Michael) sat beside Karen, and Matthew had to squeeze between his father and his brother.

 

“Dig in,” Karen exclaimed, an in an instant there were banging plates and clinking silverware as Alfred and Michael fought for food, leaving Matthew, Karen and Arthur to watch. “Michael and Al like to eat,” Karen told Arthur with a chuckle, “a lot.” She laughed as her son and her husband prodded each other with forks over who got to cut into the turkey first, and Matthew began to dump peas onto his plate. “So you're from England?” Karen asked Arthur while they waited for the chaos to die down.

 

“Yes.” Arthur nodded. “A few miles outside of London. It was very nice there.”

 

“I have friends in England,” Karen told him. “A few from college, some from work. They never fail to talk about the weather.”

 

Arthur laughed softly. “I guess so. That's... Yeah. Sounds about right.”

 

“I'm glad you're here, Arthur,” Karen said and she reached for the tray of turkey that Michael and Alfred had abandoned. “Breast meat?”

 

“That sounds fine,” Arthur said, and she hummed while she served him.

 

The dinner passed in chaos. Alfred and Michael fought over food and football while Matthew was left to watch, and Karen kept pulling Arthur into conversations about England, and whether he thought her cooking was good or not. He gave her positive answers, trying not to somehow insult her in the same way that he usually insulted people that talked to him. He was awkward at conversing with people, always had been, but she didn't seem to mind. When he tripped over his words and had to backtrack, she would chuckle and wait, nodding in understanding instead of mistaking his words for an attack.

 

Arthur found that talking to Karen was a relief. She didn't judge, and she didn't attack him. He didn't have to worry about getting too angry or too annoyed with her. He was interested in what she had to say (she read a lot of books, many that she wanted to give to him after finishing), and it was a pleasant conversation. Even when he was almost hit by a stray clump of mashed potatoes, and threatened to turn Alfred into a monument to warn future students against what would happen if they made him angry (Karen and Michael had laughed, and Matthew had hid a smile; Alfred had looked mortified, then reconsidered and decided that having future generations of students see his shining visage would be a good thing).

 

“You have a favorite dessert?” Karen asked when the rest of the family had fled the table in search of pie and ice cream.

 

Arthur didn't bother thinking about it before he shrugged.

 

Karen mock-gasped at his gesture. “But _everyone_ has a favorite dessert,” she insisted.

 

Arthur wasn't sure about how he should answer. “Food is food?” he attempted.

 

“You must have something you prefer,” Karen pressed. She cast a critical eyes over the table and hummed to herself. “The beans were too watery,” she decided. She clapped her hands together. “The potatoes were a mix; the turkey was too dry. I don't like cooked carrots, and the peas were soggy.” Karen reached for a ceramic bowl in front of Arthur, and she raised it so he could see. “But the stuffing? Amazing. It came from a box, it can't be called home-made, but I love it. I love the taste, the texture, the seasoning,” Karen waved the bowl under Arthur's nose, “the smell.” She set the bowl back down. “So what do you like, Arthur?”

 

Arthur stared at the bowl almost as though he was trying to find the answers in it. He chewed unconsciously, and finally spoke. “Scones. And cream. With ice cream and fruit.” He looked up at her. “My uncle always had it at his house.”

 

“Well, I'm sorry we don't have any scones here. But I can offer pie. There's rhubarb, chocolate and pumpkin.”

 

“I've never had rhubarb,” Arthur offered, and Karen smiled.

 

“Rhubarb it is, then.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

Arthur crept silently through his house. He was full, tired, and sure that he had mashed potato in his eyebrows from Alfred's stupid stunts. The moon was high in the sky outside, and most of the lights in the house were off. He had only seen the lights in his brother's room when he had wandered up the path to the house, and he assumed that all of his brothers had gathered there for movies.

 

All the same, he didn't want them to know he was home. He had entered silently and snuck through the house like a burglar.

 

However, he needn't have bothered sneaking. When he opened the door to his room, his mother was already there. Arthur hadn't noticed the light in his window on before, and he stared at his mother in silence. She sat on his bed, flipping through one of the many photo albums that had been perched on the top shelf above his desk. Something told him that her intrusion should make him furious, but he was too tired and couldn't bring himself to truly care.

 

“What're you doing, Mum?” he asked her, and he sat down at his desk.

 

“I didn't know you had any pictures,” she murmured. Her voice was soft, almost weak, and she turned the page slowly. Her eyes flicked back and forth as she tried to take in each and every detail from the pictures before her.

 

“Uncle James took them.” Arthur aimed his eyes to his desk, deliberately avoiding looking at his mother. He ran his fingers over the scratched surface, trying to distract himself with thoughts of _Wood glue or fill. Something to fix the scratches._

 

“I never knew he was so sentimental,” his mother laughed. At least, she tried to laugh. It came out awkward and tense, and there may have been a sob hidden behind it.

 

“He liked remembering things,” Arthur mumbled, and then he fell silent.

 

His mother seemed to know that she would get nothing more from him. She hesitated before she stood, ruffling his hair before continuing to the door. “Good night, Arthur,” she said, and she sighed when he didn't say anything. She shut the door behind her, and Arthur waited until he couldn't hear her before he moved. Arthur moved across the room and grabbed the album. He shoved them up on the shelf and out of sight, and for a moment he considered covering them with something, or even hiding them in his closet so that they couldn't be found again.

 

He hated himself for even thinking of hiding something that had been so important to his uncle, but he didn't want to share. He didn't want anyone else to see something that had belonged to him and his uncle. He hated his selfishness, but he knew that nothing would change. The pictures would always be his, and only his. They were what he had left of his uncle. They were his memories, and his life.

 

Arthur stared at the books on the shelf, and he reached for them once before shaking his head and turning away. He tried not to look at him when he walked to his closet, tossing his clothes into a hamper and yanking on a pair of slacks to sleep in. He crawled into bed, and stared at the ceiling for hours before falling into a fitful slumber.

 

 

* * *

 

 

The weekend passed with Arthur hiding in his bedroom (and spending one night screaming into his pillow), before he returned to school on Monday. He returned to his office, to the comfy chairs, and to the glares and hatred of his fellow students.

 

Arthur hid himself in his offices and his classes. He avoided being with other students and people, and tried not to dwell on the fact that Alfred didn't burst into his office like he had before. In fact, Alfred hadn't visited him at _all_ in the weeks following Thanksgiving. Arthur suggested activities and decorations for winter carnival, and watched as the skies became overcast. The school was apprehensive, waiting for the first signs of winter. Arthur cursed the frigid days while the school welcomed them, wanting nothing more than the snow that the clouds withheld.

 

Every day it didn't snow, Arthur felt more relieved. He didn't want to deal with icy roads (in addition to the freezing temperatures), and nothing could make him like the snow. Not even when Alfred suddenly showed up after school one day and forced him outside. Arthur had grabbed a jacket before the door to his office slammed shut, and he wrapped himself up even as Alfred dragged him.

 

“It's gonna snow!” Alfred shouted excitedly while he pulled Arthur through the empty building. “You've gotta see it!”

 

“I've already seen it before!” Arthur snapped, almost running into a door when he tried to adjust the collar of his coat.

 

“Not with me!” Alfred laughed. He charged through the door that led to the roof, and Arthur yanked his wrist out of Alfred's hand.

 

“There's no snow,” Arthur pointed out, and he crossed his arms and hugged himself. He was chilled through to the bone, and his coat wasn't helping.

 

“Wait for it.” Alfred grinned, and Arthur shivered.

 

“I'm waiting,” Arthur grumbled, and he rocked back and forth on his heels. “Alfred, this isn't funny. I have work to-”

 

“There!” Alfred thrust his hand into Arthur's face, and Arthur took a step back from the index finger held mere inches before his eyes. “See? A snowflake!”

 

Arthur ignored the finger, and his green eyes flicked up to Alfred's blue ones. “I don't see anything.”

 

“Well, it melted.” Alfred pulled his hand away and looked back up. “Just wait. There're gonna be some big ones coming.”

 

The two fell silent, and Arthur felt stupid when he backed against the door and let himself slide down into a sitting position. He mumbled a yes when Alfred said something about dinner at his place the following day. Then he stared up at the sky and waited for the snow to fall.

 

 

* * *

 

 

If there was something to be said about Alfred's home. Despite Arthur's hesitation and severe opposition to being in a house that wasn't his own, he couldn't deny the fact that Alfred's house was always warm. It was a fun place, with nice people and a caring family. Arthur liked it there, even if he felt uncomfortable every time he passed through the front door.

 

Karen met him with a smile, hurrying him to the kitchen while she explained her husband's absence. “He'll be home in an hour, and I wanted you to try dessert first,” Karen told him. “I tried something new, and you _have_ to tell me how it came out.”

 

Karen opened the refrigerator door and pulled out a large bowl, setting it down on the counter. She searched her drawers for a serving spoon, and dished out a portion on a plate.

 

The dessert was something that Alfred would probably like. The cream was red, white and blue, painted by the juices from the blueberries and strawberries. It was oddly patriotic, for both the American mother and the lonely Briton.

 

Arthur stared at the cream, marvelling at how similar he was even as an immigrant, and then he took a fork and cut through the berries and cream, and to the scone underneath. He speared the piece and popped it into his mouth.

 

Arthur didn't realize he was crying until Karen pulled him into her arms, and then he couldn't stop.


	10. Chapter 10

Alfred left the room, and Arthur remained with Karen. Later, Arthur wouldn't recall what was said between them. However, he would know that he wasn't _completely_ terrible.

 

Arthur didn't know how long he sat there with Karen's arms around his shoulders, and his face pressed into the crook of her neck. He knew that it felt like hours, but time was deceptive. Hours could be minutes or seconds, and while he thought about the inconsistency of something so fixed, he thought about all that could happen in a minute or second. How long did it take to slide the bullet into the chamber and raise it to your own head?

 

The thought brought more tears.

 

Eventually, Arthur took back control. The tears stopped, his eyes were rubbed, and he forced himself into silence when he carefully pulled away from Karen. The pressure that had built inside him for weeks and burnt at his throat had left, and he found it easier to breathe. However, humiliation took the place of that pressure, and embarrassment burned deep within his chest. He didn't dare speak to Karen, but she filled the silence that was no longer broken by Arthur's silent gasps for breath.

 

“It's alright to cry,” Karen told him. She took his hands in hers and squeezed them, smiling softly. “It doesn't make you any less than who you are.” Her smile faltered for a moment. “Wait... That came out wrong. Let me try again.” She rubbed the backs of Arthur's hands with her thumbs, and he sniffed. “Crying doesn't make you weak. It just means you're human, with emotions and feelings and life. And it makes you feel better!”

 

Arthur nodded hesitantly, and Karen moved one of her hands up to ruffle his hair.

 

“Tell me about it,” she said, and Arthur could hear the sincerity in her voice. She wasn't making a statement; she wanted to hear what he had to say, and what bothered him.

 

Arthur didn't want to burden her with his life story. He slowly shook his head.

 

“Liar,” Karen joked. She laughed softly. She rubbed his hands for another moment, then slowly placed them down on the counter. She stood, and before he could worry that he had insulted her, she spoke again. “Cold towel on the face will get rid of swelling,” she said, and he watched while she searched cupboards for a dish cloth. She found a blue one after a few minutes of searching, then ran it under a stream of cold water from the sink. Arthur was silent when he watched her, and she turned off the water. She twisted the water from the cloth, then walked back to the table. Arthur moved to take the cloth, but she avoided his hands and folded it in half before pressing it over the upper half of his face.

 

Arthur recoiled from the sudden cold, and she laughed at him. He reached up to press the cloth and hold it against his face, and she sat back down in the chair beside him.

 

Neither spoke for a long time. Karen played with her nails, and finally asked how he was feeling. He shrugged, and she sighed.

 

“Well...” Karen hesitated. “The boys are out back doing _something_ , Mike isn't back from work yet, and it's just you and me in the kitchen. I can't promise you anything. I don't know how to be a mentor or a therapist or _anything_ like that. But I _am_ a mother.” Arthur remained still, and she continued. “Talk to me. I can at least listen.”

 

It was an invitation that was too tempting to pass on. Arthur fought the urge to speak, but soon words were bubbling out of him weakly. He couldn't stop the flood, and thanked the fact that he could hide behind the cloth over his eyes. He didn't want to admit his faults and his insecurities (and certainly not to the mother of the one person that paid attention to him at school), but having someone to listen broke down his barriers. He couldn't speak fast enough, and he tried to make her understand. He needed someone, _anyone,_ to know at least a little bit of him. He didn't want to feel so alone. He knew that later he would regret telling her _anything_ , but it didn't matter. At that moment, he needed an ear, and a shoulder to lean on.

 

Karen didn't say anything when he spoke. Through his slow words and his hesitation, she remained silent. She touched his shoulder when he paused, and he could imagine her nodding on the opposite side of the cloth, her hair shifting and falling over her shoulders when she tilted her head. She listened to everything, and didn't criticize.

 

“Do your parents know?” she finally asked when he pulled the cloth away from his eyes. He shook his head, and she took his chin in her hand to turn his head. “You look a lot better,” she said, and he took a deep breath. “Want to help with pizza?”

 

“Everything I touch burns,” Arthur muttered, but she pulled him out of his chair and ushered him towards the refrigerator.

 

“Don't worry about _that_ ,” she chided. “Even if you just cut the veggies, you'll be fine!”

 

Arthur soon found himself at the counter with a cutting board and a knife, and a bowl of assorted vegetables sitting before him. He diced the onions and the peppers, and Karen stood beside him. She rolled out the dough while he cut, and asked him how school was going. It wasn't long before Michael arrived and watched the two work, and eventually the twins returned from outside to join their father. Alfred insisted that Arthur sit next to him when the pizza went in the oven, and asked him if he was going to watch the mock-football game the week before school let out for winter vacation. Arthur said no, but Alfred pressured him into a yes. Michael watched the two bicker in amusement, and Karen watched the timer on the oven while it counted down to zero.

 

Arthur and Alfred broke off their argument when the oven beeped, and Karen pulled out the pizzas within. They barely waited for the food to cool before they jumped in, and Arthur waited silently for the chaos to calm before he dared to take his share. However, before Arthur had a chance to do anything, Alfred had shoved a plate piled with pizzas in front of him. Arthur looked up at Alfred in confusion when he thanked him, and Alfred grinned.

 

Dinner passed with more noise and confusion than Thanksgiving, and while Arthur had hated those dinners with his family, he found that Alfred's family was more enjoyable to be around. He decided that it was because Alfred's family joked and laughed; his own family felt more like a battleground, where there were no allies and only enemies. In his home, everything was a fight instead of a friendly rivalry or challenge. It was the complete opposite of Alfred's home.

 

Arthur decided to leave immediately after dinner, saying that he had a full bag of homework. It was mostly a lie, but he didn't want to intrude any longer. It was growing dark outside, and he knew that his parents would probably be furious when he returned home.

 

Arthur was pulling on his coat when Karen followed him to the door and leaned against the wall. He stopped and moved to shake her hand and thank her for the meal, but she hugged him.

 

“I don't know everything going on,” she whispered over his shoulder, “but I don't think you're giving your mom enough credit. _I_ think she loves you. She just doesn't know how to talk to you.”

 

Arthur didn't say anything, and simply nodded. Karen let him go and he returned to pulling on his shoes while he thanked her. His words were interrupted by a shout, and Alfred ran to the door wearing a large bomber jacket over a sweatshirt.

 

“I'll take you home!” Alfred said loudly, and he yanked on a pair of boots. Karen chuckled, and Matthew walked out, arms crossed.

 

Matthew rolled his eyes. “Coming on strong enough, Al?”

 

“Fuck you,” Alfred shot back. Arthur looked up in confusion, and finished tying his shoes.

 

“Real smooth.” Matthew grinned, and Alfred grabbed Arthur's arms. His face was tinged with red, and he dragged Arthur outside before he had a chance to finish saying his good-byes.

 

“What was that about?” Arthur asked when they started down the sidewalk and back towards his house.

 

“Nothing.” Alfred grinned and skipped beside Arthur. “So, been lonely without me?”

 

Arthur was confused for a moment, then he scowled. “I actually got work done,” he muttered. A complete lie, but it wasn't as though Alfred would ever find out. It wasn't like anyone kept tabs on what he did.

 

“That's too bad.” Alfred slapped his shoulder. “Must've been boring! You always look cranky when you do work.”

 

“It's called concentrating,” Arthur snapped, and Alfred laughed. The two continued on in silence, and Arthur crammed his hands in his jacket pockets. It was freezing out, and he almost wished for a scarf. He blew air from his lips, and then Alfred yanked him to the side. “The hell-!”

 

“Let's go to the park!” Alfred didn't bother waiting for a response. He was already dragging Arthur to a swingset in the distance, a grin on his face that was lit by the streetlights around them. Alfred grabbed the chains on one of the swings and stepped up onto the seat. He rocked back and forth, and the chain creaked.

 

“What are you doing?” Arthur demanded.

 

“There's another one.” Alfred pointed, and Arthur sighed before sitting down. “Come _on,_ Arthur. Don't be _boring_.”

 

“I'm not breaking my skull out here,” Arthur snapped.

 

“I'll catch you if you fall,” Alfred said. “Promise.”

 

Arthur glared at him but decided to give it a try. He sighed when he turned around and grabbed the chains, and hesitantly put one of his feet on the seat. He stumbled forward and hopped awkwardly on one foot, then pulled himself up and set his other foot on it. He swung back and forth and the chains twisted around him, spinning him and threatening to throw him on the ground. He grit his teeth, then the swing was jerked to a stop. Alfred had leaned over to grab the chain just above his hand, and after a moment the swing was steady.

 

“It's fun,” Alfred told him, “you just have to get used to it.”

 

“I'm sure,” Arthur said dryly. His legs trembled and he stared at the ground. He was maybe two feet off it, but that would be almost an eight-foot fall for his head if he happened to get projected off the rubber seat. “So... Where were you?”

 

“Huh?”

 

“The last few weeks.” Arthur didn't look over at him, and Alfred shrugged.

 

“Well, a couple weeks I was at my grandparents' places. We don't go there during Christmas or Thanksgiving breaks, so we have to go in between. So when I'm actually _at_ school, I have to do all my homework so I don't fall behind.”

 

“Ah.” Arthur slowly rocked himself back, and the swing jerked with his unsteady movements. “It must've been fun.”

 

“Eh, not really.” Alfred bent his knees and made his swing go faster, moving with it to get it higher. “Dad's parents don't like me that much. They always pick on me. Mom's family's a lot better.”

 

“I can't imagine anyone not liking you,” Arthur chuckled.

 

“They hate gays. Goes against their religion or something.”

 

Arthur blinked and looked over quickly. Alfred didn't look that bothered by the fact, but Arthur couldn't imagine what he was thinking.

 

“But it's cool. We only stay a couple days, and we always get a couple hotel rooms. With a pool. That's the best part.” Alfred looked back at Arthur and grinned. “Dad doesn't like his parents. He said they're living in the past, and that family's more important than a label.”

 

“Oh.” Arthur frowned and tried to concentrate on keeping his swing still. “Your parents are nice.”

 

“My parents rock!” Alfred shouted, and his voice echoed in the darkness. Arthur looked around nervously, as though he expected a police officer to hit them with a noise complaint.

 

Nothing happened. No one tried to arrest them, and no one even walked by. Alfred and Arthur were the only ones in the park, and they talked about pointless things even as it got colder.

 

Eventually, they both had to return home. Alfred walked as far as Arthur's house, but he didn't step onto the property. He waved and then turned to jog back to his own house when Arthur finally entered his.

 

Arthur had hoped that he wouldn't be caught, but his mother found him before he reached the stairs to his room. Arthur stopped when she called his name, and he looked back at her.

 

“Mathias and his mother are coming for New Year's,” she told him, and he stiffened. It felt like a bucket of icy water had been dumped over him, and he swallowed. “I called her the other day and she said that he wanted to come to the States for college next year. I thought they could stay with us, and you could catch up.” She smiled at him, and he tried to tell himself that she _wasn't_ mocking him. “We can go out and buy a couple bed frames tomorrow. They're going to need them!”


	11. Chapter 11

Arthur hated shopping. Whether it was for clothing or school supplies, shopping forced him to interact with people he didn't want to deal with. He hated having cashiers and “customer support representatives” annoy him when he tried to search the aisles for what he needed; it was worse when he was stuck inside some department store with his mother while she searched for bed frames and mattresses. She was far too happy about the visitors that were going to be arriving at the end of the month, though Arthur didn't mirror her excitement. In fact, he followed her with resigned acceptance of the fact that they would have to house Mathias and his mother later in the year.

 

She was deliberately putting him through hell. Arthur was sure of it. He wanted to be angry at his mother for that, but he was sure that it was Mathias's fault. Mathias had probably urged his own mother to visit because Arthur was avoiding all contact with him. Arthur was already making plans in his head for when Mathias arrived, and had promised himself that he would avoid him at all costs. It was only a matter of finding out where he would have to _go_ to avoid him. Arthur wondered if he would be able to swindle a set of keys from a staff member. If he could pull it off, he wouldn't have to suffer through the visit. Mathias could hang around with his brothers, and Arthur would be able to pretend that there weren't unwelcome guests in his house.

 

Arthur refused to give her any input about the bed frames or mattresses, and so she chose simple items that weren't expensive, but were still far from cheap. A delivery was arranged for the Friday later in the week, when Arthur would be done school until the new year. She probably wanted him to help set up the beds in the guest room.

 

When they returned to the car, Arthur feared that their trip would not take them back home, and that his mother would decide to take him somewhere and “talk.” His fears were realized when she pulled into the parking lot of the familiar diner where they had gone after their trip to the doctor. His mother pulled the key from the ignition when the car had stopped, but she didn't get out. She sighed and leaned back in her seat, and ran her fingers through her hair. Arthur waited for her to make a move, but she made no motion to open the door and head inside. In fact, she looked quite comfortable inside the car.

 

Arthur wanted to speak and ask if something was wrong, or if he had somehow made a terrible mistake, but she beat him to it.

 

“Your brothers are jerks,” she finally said. Arthur looked at her and frowned, but she didn't seem to mind. “They always have been. They've beaten and harassed you since you were a kid. Well, you still _are_ a kid.” She sighed and clasped her hands. Then she let her forearms dropped against the steering wheel. “You know, your father and I aren't as stupid as you think we are. And _you're_ not as subtle as you think you are.”

 

Arthur stiffened in his seat. He turned his head away and looked outside the window, away from his mother. He tried to think over what he had done. He didn't know how he had likely insulted his parents, but he needed to find a way to fix it before he got in even more trouble than he was already in. “Sorry,” he mumbled, and he hoped that his apology would lessen the blow that he was sure to receive.

 

“You have nothing to be sorry for.” She sighed and fell silent. She looked over at Arthur, then back out her own window. “My brother wasn't the only one we lost, was he? If anything, I should be apologizing to you.”

 

Arthur swallowed and set his jaw.

 

“We want to help. Will you let us do that much?”

 

Arthur said nothing. He gripped the armrest on the door, and after a few minutes his mother sighed.

 

“I'm hungry,” she muttered. She didn't look at him when she opened her door, and he followed somewhat hesitantly. They moved inside and chose a booth, and waited in silence for their orders to be taken. Arthur's mother played with a card that showed the day's specials, and kept looking at Arthur. He had chosen to stare out the window. “Will you at least tell me where you go, when you're not home?” When Arthur didn't move, she breathed out. “I didn't think so.”

 

 

* * *

 

Arthur rarely went home before five o'clock the week before Christmas vacation. He stayed after school and looked through student requests, or ideas for future activities when the new semester started. When he wasn't looking through paperwork or correcting half-assed work done by the secretary and treasurer, he was attacking the mountain of homework that had accumulated. He did whatever he could to avoid going home to face his mother, and it didn't take long for Alfred to realize that there was a chance to harass him after hours.

 

Alfred had become a permanent fixture in the student council office. Football season had ended, and when their schedules coincided, Alfred could be found in Arthur's office. Contrary to Arthur's belief that Alfred would be a pest, the freshman was all too happy to settle into an extra chair and curl up with a book to study. They both did homework (sometimes Arthur helped Alfred with English), and when Alfred discovered that Arthur stayed long after the final bell had rung, he stayed behind too.

 

The week felt impossibly long, and it was Wednesday when Alfred began to stay after school. Arthur had complained about the addition to his formerly quiet office, but they both knew it was a front, even if they were unaware of the reasons. Arthur was lonely, and terrible at socializing with people. He was never able to keep his mouth shut, and always said the wrong thing at the wrong time. The fact that Alfred never complained or stormed out was a relief. Arthur constantly dwelled on the thought that Alfred pretended to be nice, but even if it was a lie, he appreciated it. He hated being alone, but he was never able to work up the nerve (or fix his attitude) and try to reach out to others. He didn't want to burden them with unwanted attention and requests.

 

The week ended, and Arthur made it a point to stay out extra late Friday afternoon. It wasn't difficult to convince a teacher to give him a key before vacation; they were all too happy to let him continue working over the break, though the principal had given him odd looks. He stayed in the school long after the teachers had left, and it was only when Alfred burst in and threw a snowball that he was able to pull himself away.

 

“What the _fuck_?” Arthur demanded when he brushed the scattered snow from his desk and hurriedly wiped up the water with his sleeve.

 

“It's snowing!”

 

“I can _see_ that!”

 

“Yeah, but you've gotta come out! I mean, we've never had a snowball fight before!”

 

“That's because I'm-”

 

“And McDonald's! Big Macs're awesome on a cold day!”

 

Arthur sighed and looked at Alfred. Alfred's cheeks were flushed red from the cold, and he shook his hands to rid them of the ice and cold water left over from the snowball. Arthur pushed the window open and scooped the remaining snow up from the ground, then let it fall out the window.

 

“McDonald's? Honestly?” Arthur could think of a million other things to do. He could take a walk, or finish the homework that wouldn't be due until long after school started again. He could even go to the park and sit in the cold for a few hours. However, he would be doing those alone. He would be lonely and miserable if he went off and did other things. He looked down at his desk and stared at the tiny stack of papers. “I should get this done before I do anything.”

 

“I heartily disagree!” Alfred clapped his hands together, and Arthur groaned. “You should have fun once in a while! So you're coming with me!”

 

What Alfred must have thought was a heartfelt proclamation of friendship had little effect on Arthur's thoughts. Arthur stared at him in silence and then shook his head before sitting back down in his chair. He wasn't there for long; Alfred crossed the room and collapsed on the desk, burying the papers under his body.

 

“C'mon, Arthur,” Alfred whined. “I'm hungry.”

 

“Then go eat.” Arthur attempted to push Alfred away, but Alfred clung to the desk like a child.

 

“I want you to eat with me.”

 

“I'm not hungry.”

 

“Please?”

 

They argued back and forth. Alfred didn't move, and Arthur didn't raise his pen. It didn't take long for Arthur to tire of the argument; he gave in, and turned out the lights with the knowledge that he would regret leaving.

 

Alfred was far too excited by the fact that Arthur had finally given in. He talked without stopping while they walked to the McDonald's that was only a few miles from the school, and talked even while they ate. Arthur found himself relaxing once again while Alfred talked, and he sipped his milkshake to keep himself from staring at Alfred with a dazed expression.

 

He didn't regret leaving the school. The fact that he didn't was a surprise, though he began to worry when Alfred started talking about plans for vacation. Matthew had a hockey game; there was a snowstorm expected in the coming weeks; Alfred wanted to check out a new burger joint in town; Karen was cooking a big dinner, and Alfred (and the rest of his family) seemed to think that Arthur should join them.

 

Arthur wasn't sure how he was supposed to react. The thought that someone wanted him around was exciting, and unbelievable. Alfred seemed to think that it would be awesome to hang out more, and while he talked, Arthur began to doubt himself.

 

Arthur wanted to hang out with Alfred in a bad way. However, he also wanted to avoid Mathias as much as possible. As much as he hated it, he had to ask himself if he was really interested in trying to have fun, or if he was using Alfred as an excuse. The more Alfred talked, and the more he thought about it, the more sure he became. He was using Alfred. He had to be. When he came to that conclusion, he also had to think about that that meant. If he was using Alfred, then was Alfred using him as well? Was Alfred playing with him, and was he playing with Alfred?

 

The thought kept him silent through the meal. He stared at the burger in his hand and took a hesitant bite. Alfred had insisted on paying, and he was sure that that fact should mean something. At least, he wanted it to mean something.

 

In a single moment, everything he had hoped was real had some crashing down. He didn't know if he could trust the teen sitting across from him. He didn't know what he was doing there, sitting in the middle of a brightly lit restaurant with Alfred across from him, holding a burger in his hand that he hadn't paid for. He didn't want to be there; he wanted to get out, and away from the person across from him. He didn't want the people at the counter to see him. He didn't want to be near the woman eating french fries at the table on the other side of the restaurant. His fingers trembled, and he found it hard to hold on to the greasy _thing_ in his hands.

 

Alfred looked at him, and Arthur knew. Alfred was playing. Alfred enjoyed this, enjoyed seeing the feared student council president come undone, enjoyed the fact that Arthur was terrified, and he _didn't know why or what there was to fear._

 

“Wanna leave?” Alfred asked abruptly, and he shocked Arthur by standing and taking the tray away. He dropped the plastic tray on top of one of the trashcans, and waited for Arthur to cram his burger into the paper bag with the large “M” on the front. He followed Arthur outside, and when Arthur expected to be laughed at and abandoned, Alfred stayed.

 

“It's better outside,” Alfred decided, and his breath made clouds before his eyes. Arthur shivered, but Alfred didn't seem to mind. “You know what we should do?” Alfred paused and waited, but continued when Arthur didn't say anything. “Buy glowsticks. They're really cool, you know?” Alfred looked over and grinned. “You tie a string to one end, then swing it around above your head after you pop a hole in the other end. The chemicals go all over the place, and it's really fucking cool.” Alfred reached out with a hand, and waited for one of the large snowflakes to land. “It's like walking in space. Just... Magic. And stars. Lots of stars.”

 

Arthur nodded and swallowed. He didn't really feel any better. He was still waiting for Alfred to turn around and walk home, but that didn't happen. Instead, Alfred turned to face him, brought back from his thoughts about stars and glowsticks. “I'll walk you home,” Alfred told him. “But we can totally go slow. We still have to eat anyways.”

 

Arthur nodded once again, and Alfred grinned.

 

“Cool.”


	12. Chapter 12

Arthur went to sleep almost as soon as he had returned home. He wondered if Alfred had stayed to watch when Arthur left him at the pavement, or if Alfred had left as soon as he had rid himself of Arthur.

 

Even while Arthur wondered, he tried to push away his thoughts. He didn't need deep relationships with _anyone_ , least of all _Alfred._ The fact that he and Alfred interacted at all made him uncomfortable. He knew he shouldn't care about what other people thought about Alfred, but honestly—anyone that associated with Arthur would suffer in the end, whether by Arthur's treatment of them, or by the opinions of people observing their interactions. Arthur firmly believed that, and nothing would ever convince him otherwise. He finally slept with those thoughts in mind, and when he was shaken awake the following morning, he was sure that he had only been asleep for a few short hours.

 

However, a glance at his clock revealed that he had managed to sleep for ten hours. That glance also told him that he was waking up in time to see his mother off before she left for the airport.

 

The expression on his mother's face told him that he would be joining her for that trip.

 

Arthur showered and dressed, and joined his mother in their car for the trip to the nearest airport.

 

The ride to the airport took almost two hours, and they arrived to find that they were still an hour early. Arthur's mother didn't appear at all annoyed with the fact that they had to wait an hour for the plane; she pulled Arthur into a small restaurant, and they sat down for a nice (if quiet) lunch.

 

Then they had to go to the baggage claim and wait.

 

The wait tested Arthur's determination and sanity. He couldn't stand the tension or the idea that someone he had been so determined to distance himself from was so close to meeting him once more. When the familiar teen finally rode down the escalator to the baggage claim, Arthur was sure he was going to be sick. Especially when Mathias walked straight to him, then playfully punched him in the side before he slung his arm over Arthur's shoulders.

 

“Long time no see, Art,” Mathias said loudly, and Arthur gave him the dirtiest look he could muster up.

 

Arthur didn't dare slug the other in the middle of an airport in a country paranoid about public violence in high risk locations; he was also wary of the fact that his mother and Mathias's were talking with one another and laughing nearby. Of course, Arthur also felt rather weary beside Mathias's obvious excitement. Being near Mathias was making him feel rather volatile, but he couldn't bring himself to act out, or even respond to Mathias's enthusiasm (and his subtle attempts to get a reaction).

 

Arthur managed to say “Hi,” before Mathias took a step back and _looked_ at him. Arthur frowned, and then Mathias snorted.

 

“You've changed,” Mathias said bluntly. “You would've decked me if we were in England.”

 

“Think of where we are,” Arthur grumbled. “This isn't a big airport, but they'll still be paranoid about people fighting or something.”

 

“Eh.” Mathias shrugged. “Like it matters.” He looked up when their mothers started to move closer, and he grinned. “So... How long's it been? Two years?”

 

“Hardly.” Arthur dropped his voice so that his mother wouldn't hear when she approached, but Mathias didn't seem to care.

 

Or Mathias was trying to egg him on.

 

“You change your number? I thought I got the new one, but it never went through. Maybe you lost it!” Mathias grinned, and Arthur saw his mother staring at him from the corner of his eyes. The urge to beat Mathias swelled and died in a single moment, when his mother finally looked away.

 

Mathias was an asshole, Arthur decided. He quickly rescinded the thought, and tried to think of a word that described him better. He was heinous, a prat, disgusting, a traitor; and Arthur was worse for thinking that way about him. After all, he _had_ been avoiding Mathias.

 

Arthur decided to blame his mother for his misfortunes. While they gathered the luggage from the baggage claim and walked back out to the car, Arthur had to force himself to contribute to a conversation he didn't want any part of, with a person he had never wanted to see again. He tried to keep up with Mathias's constantly changing thoughts and attitude, and at the same time tried to direct the conversation towards something he was willing to let his mother overhear (he was sure she was listening closely despite the fact that she appeared to be talking to Mathias's mother; she was judging him by observing his interactions with old acquaintances, and he didn't want her to hear anything that would make her... wonder).

 

The conversation was, for the most part, rather tame. Apparently Mathias had no interest in letting their mothers overhear possibly private information; it was a surprising fact, considering Mathias was an annoying loudmouth that really had no idea how to be nice or reasonable.

 

In fact, Mathias had gotten far better about being sensible while Arthur had been gone. It became obvious when he waited until they were at Arthur's house before he asked if Arthur had kept in contact with his last girlfriend.

 

Arthur glared at him, and Mathias shrugged.

 

“Just wondering. I mean, she was kinda pissed and all.” He suddenly laughed, and the door slammed when their mothers went into the house. “She attacked that guy you were with before her. Funny as hell! She thought you went back to him. Man, I shoulda got it on video. You would've liked it.”

 

There probably wasn't a lot Mathias could say to make Arthur feel worse. He had dumped Carol with the intent of leaving behind his connections, and had considered following his uncle in leaving the _ever-glorious_ path of life. He had never intended to cause trouble for anyone.

 

“That was her mistake,” Arthur muttered. “I never said it was serious. It was high school, what'd she expect? That we'd get married?”

 

“Girls are psychotic,” Mathias decided. He shoved his hands in his pockets and walked to the front door with Arthur, glancing at the snow when a small gust of wind blew some on the path before him.

 

“Hmm.”

 

Mathias managed to get Arthur to lead him to his room, but frowned when he took the time to actually look around. He crossed his arms, glared at Arthur's desk, and then turned to face his friend with a scowl.

 

“I thought you liked football. Where're all the posters?”

 

Arthur dropped down onto his bed and shrugged. “Had to throw them away. Travel and all.”

 

“You had one signed by Beckham! You idiot! If you were gonna toss it, you could've given it to me!”

 

Arthur averted his eyes, feeling guilty. He had spent hours staring at that poster, at the name in the corner. He had deliberated on tossing it or keeping it, remembering how he had seen Beckham when he had shopped for new shoes. His uncle had disappeared behind a row of footballs, and then appeared with a poster and a marker. He had shoved Arthur forward, and had grinned while Beckham signed it.

 

Arthur had stared at that poster for hours, trying to decide how much he wanted it. He regretted it. He regretted the moment of rage that had passed over him, when he had hated his uncle for leaving him and had thrown it out. The moment it hit the bin he had hated himself, and when he turned his back, he could only feel overwhelming guilt. He had refused to give in to the feelings that only grew stronger with every passing moment, feelings he hadn't truly felt before the moment his mother opened his bedroom door and told him that his uncle wouldn't be coming for dinner.

 

“Sorry,” Arthur muttered. “Didn't think of it.”

 

Mathias snorted and knelt down to look under Arthur's bed. “So where're the magazines? Bet you have a huge collection!”

 

“I don't have any.”

 

Mathias looked up in disbelief, and then frowned. “You okay? You're being weird.”

 

“It's nothing.”

 

“Yeah right. Jesus, you're really-”

 

Arthur didn't get a chance to find out what he was. His mother had shouted up that she had made snacks, and her tone implied that there would be more than eating going on downstairs. Arthur held back a sigh while Mathias sped from the room in search of food and entertainment.

 

Mathias hadn't even been in the country for more than a few hours and Arthur already felt as though his presence was going to break him.

 

* * *

 

_Trapped._

 

It was the only way Arthur could describe his current situation. Mathias's presence had, originally, been a simple inconvenience. Arthur had failed to realize the full implications of his visit. He hadn't realized that Mathias would want someone to hand out with, _without_ his mother. He had also forgotten that Mathias didn't care about his brothers. Mathias rarely spoke with them, and the only time he did was when he wanted something passed to him during a meal.

 

Arthur hadn't realized that if he wanted to go out, then Mathias was sure to follow.

 

It was when Arthur considered going to the park that he thought of Mathias's probable reaction, and the likely pursuit that would occur if he left. He had sat down at his desk and stared at the wall with his emotions swinging between disbelief and despair. When Mathias returned, a bag of popcorn in one hand and a bottle of soda in the other, Arthur forced himself to pay attention to whatever he was saying.

 

Something about a television. And a horror movie of some kind.

 

Then Arthur's mother was walking in, all smiles, and with a television in tow. Arthur could only watch while she and Mathias set it up on a stand in an empty corner, and then she left them alone to their devices and mischief.

 

Mathias was talking again while he shoved something into the DVD player that had appeared with the television. Arthur didn't pay a lot of attention to whatever it was that Mathias was doing. All he knew was that people were dying at an alarming rate while the movie went on.

 

Arthur didn't have to worry about the movie and its questionable content for long. In fact, when he finally glanced towards Mathias after an hour, he found that he was asleep.

 

Arthur turned back to the television, but no longer gave it _any_ attention. He had never imagined that _jetlag_ of all things would help him, but the fact that Mathias was sleeping like a child on the floor felt like a miracle. It also helped that in England, the time was likely closer to eleven, and Mathias was probably used to getting to sleep earlier than later (which was odd, considering Mathias seemed like a person that would stay up until the early hours of the morning).

 

Arthur finally pulled himself together, and crept out of his chair. It was late enough so that outside, the sky was probably dark, and Arthur intended to take advantage of Mathias's exhaustion, and what would likely be the only time that Mathias was asleep while Arthur remained awake.

 

Arthur carefully reached into his closet for a sweater and pulled it on over his shirt. He hesitated, then grabbed a pair of gloves to shove in his pocket. He watched Mathias from the corner of his eye, then left the room as quietly as he could.

 

Arthur didn't see Mathias's mother downstairs. His mother looked at him from the couch pointedly when he slipped into his shoes and coat, and he shrugged.

 

“He's asleep. I doubt he's gonna wanna talk to me right now.”

 

Arthur tried to ignore the tug in his chest, one that burned with guilt and shame, but it was hard when his mother looked away and tried to concentrate on a book in her hand. He was sure she was embarrassed with him somehow, ashamed of him. It was almost strong enough to keep him from opening the door, but somehow he still had the will to open the door and leave.

 

And so he did.

 


	13. Chapter 13

Arthur ignored the guilt that pooled in his stomach and filled his veins. He walked determinedly down the street and away from his house, all while thinking of the sleeping person in his room. He was committing another betrayal, leaving him alone, but he couldn't stop his feet from moving. He hunched his shoulders and pressed his fists deeper into his pockets, frowning and staring at the ground while he walked. He only ever looked up when a car drove by, and its headlights flashed over him before it turned down a side road and disappeared.

 

Arthur didn't intend to walk to the park. He just found himself wandering through the wood and rubber chips, kicking the wood and watching while the chips skittered past the slide and other playground equipment. Arthur finally found himself at the swings, and he stared at the swings. After a moment, he placed his foot on the rubber seats and grabbed the chains before he pulled himself up.

 

Arthur shifted his weight back and pushed his feet forward. The swing jerked before finally moving back and forth, though its path was slanted. He had to awkwardly slide the chains into the crook of his elbows, and use his hands to push away from the metal bar that he neared whenever he swung back. The swing twisted, and he let himself be distracted from what was going on around him, and what he was doing.

 

Why had he avoided Mathias for so long?

 

Arthur was sure it was for the best. The calls and the e-mails had been more than he could take, and more than he wanted to deal with. However, he couldn't ignore that he had pushed Mathias away with serious intent, and that his treatment may have not been the best. When Mathias had arrived, Arthur had given him curt answers, words without any purpose but to shut him up. And as soon as Mathias had fallen asleep, Arthur had snatched the chance and left him alone. Was that treatment at all fair?

 

It didn't take long for Arthur to reach an answer. It was surprisingly simple.

 

Arthur was a curse. His mere presence pushed people away, for better or worse; all one had to do was look at his _(dead)_ uncle, or his _(dead)_ grandfather. Arthur shivered, and though he blamed it on the cold, he knew that the weather had nothing to do with it.

 

The people that spent time with Arthur, and paid attention to him while pretending to like him all suffered. They died. They left him. Arthur jerked his body and the swing twisted. The grinding of chains wasn't able to break through his thoughts, that seemed to linger on the edge of terror. He was a curse, and more people would suffer. Mathias. His mother. His father. Alfred. Karen. Matthew. Michael.

 

The list went on. The more Arthur thought, the more people he realized could fall to ruin at his hands.

 

Arthur continued to swing. He swallowed, and moved his jaw and tongue in an attempt to wet his suddenly dry throat. He had to rein in his thoughts; even he knew that his ideas and self-doubt were out of control. How could he possibly bring _anyone_ to ruin? He didn't have any special abilities or powers. He was painfully normal, albeit a bit unusual and disturbed. He knew for a fact that there was no way he could cause harm to anybody (with the possible exception of a certain frog).

 

Arthur wondered how many times he had told himself the same things; how many times he had tried to assure himself that he was normal, and that his thoughts were inaccurate and extreme.

 

He _knew_ he was wrong. He _knew_ that there were more things wrong than just his thoughts.

 

It wasn't as though he was willing to acknowledge those faults. He would rather run as fast as he could in the opposite direction, and not have to deal with whatever was wrong with him. He didn't need to be analysed, or tested, or probed, or whatever else he thought could happen. He didn't want to admit that there was something wrong with him. At least, not to anyone. He had slipped with Karen; that had been a mistake he would regret long into the future.

 

Arthur slowly reached into his pocket, and fished out his cellphone. He stared at it and without thinking, he began to hit buttons. He could finally feel the cold, and his fingers were losing feeling from the wind. Those wrapped around the phone were already beginning to feel numb, and he wondered who he could talk to, if there was _anyone_ to talk to.

 

Before he had even figured out what he wanted to do, and if he even wanted to call someone, his phone was making noises and he stared at it. It took a moment for him to realize that someone on the other end was saying his name, and he rushed to turn off the phone.

 

What the hell had he done? Arthur's heart raced while he stared at the phone, and he hurried to silence it when it began to ring. Why had he called _Alfred_ of all people? There was no reason to talk to him, and no reason to meet him.

 

When he thought of actually _meeting_ Alfred, he panicked and looked around. He hadn't paid a lot of attention to where he was going when he had left the house. He hadn't even noticed that he had gone to the same park that Alfred had taken him to, and done the same things that they had done before.

 

Alfred was smart. He was... unconventional at times, and absent-minded, and Arthur was sure that a little thinking would bring Alfred right to where he was.

 

Arthur wouldn't have that.

 

Arthur stumbled when he got off the swing, and was almost knocked over when it twisted in his hands. He let it go as though it had burned him, then he fled the park, and ran back to his house. His lungs burned and his face felt stretched and dry, frozen by the wind. He didn't want to be found and pulled into a conversation. He didn't want to do anything with him. He didn't want to _be_ with him.

 

He thought of Mathias. He had tried to push him away. He had tried to ignore the phone calls, and the emails, but Mathias still showed up in the end, acting as though everything was okay and nothing had changed.

 

It was a shame Alfred was turning out the same way. If people would just stop coming back, and pushing through Arthur's defenses, then maybe he wouldn't feel so guilty about pushing them away.

 

* * *

 

Arthur's mother didn't bother him when he returned. He simply went up to his room, frowned at Mathias on the floor (Mathias had a room, and Arthur hadn't planned on sharing), and then fell into bed. He woke before Mathias the following morning, and then waited for him to wake up.

 

When Mathias finally woke, the two went downstairs together (Mathias was rather loud, while Arthur walked down in silence). Arthur had attempted to avoid being at meals with his family for as long as he could remember. He tried not to feel resentful towards Mathias for finally forcing him to sit down at the table with family.

 

Thankfully, the entire family _wasn't_ there. His father had to work, while his brothers had left earlier in the morning to so _somewhere_ (Arthur didn't know where, and he didn't want to know). That left only Arthur and Mathias, and their mothers.

 

It was everything Arthur hated. Mathias's mother asked question after question, wondering what Arthur was interested in, how his classes were going, how he liked the States. Most questions Arthur was able to bump off on Mathias, who would answer them for Arthur's mother instead.

 

The truth was, Arthur didn't know what he wanted. He had no future plans. He wanted to return to England, but England held memories that he would rather not have to deal with. He had honestly never looked around his own hometown; in the time he had lived there, he had only really gone between home and the school. His classes were normal, and the only thing he really excelled in was English (though he had had the hardest time in the beginning, insisting that his spelling was correct and that no one had any reason to try and change it). But that didn't mean he wanted to go into English. He still didn't know what he wanted; he had never actively thought about it.

 

Arthur was saved from his dilemma when their mothers left. From what Arthur gathered, they wanted to finish Christmas shopping, and to get more decorations for the tree in the living room (a tree that Arthur had never noticed before; it said something about his interests in spending time with his family).

 

Mathias and Arthur were left alone for the day, and Mathias immediately declared it a day to raise hell and cause problems.

 

Naturally, Arthur immediately disagreed. He had no interest in “raising hell,” and so they settled on watching movies. Arthur had looked up the nearest rental store online, and they had braved the cold to find movies that could keep them occupied.

 

After walking around in the frigid wind for the better part of an hour, Mathias decided that movies really were preferable to exploring the town in the cold. He settled into the large armchair that Arthur's father liked, the lights out and the curtains shut, and Arthur was left to take the couch.

 

Arthur found it was easier to get involved in the movies than to attempt to talk to Mathias. And really, what would there be to talk about? Occasionally Mathias would ask a question, or say something about a stupid character on the show, but then he would let the conversation die and just return to the movie. Mathias complained loudly about the lack of video games when the second movie ended, and Arthur didn't bother to point out that there was a system somewhere in the mess that was his oldest brother's room.

 

Eventually, they decided that they needed lunch. Two teenage boys should have been able to find _something_ that they could eat, but when they took a look at themselves, it was obvious that they would have to order out. Their mothers were gone, Mathias had never used an oven in his life, and Arthur's only ventures into cooking had always ended with flame and charcoal.

 

Mathias insisted on ordering pizza. Arthur let him call and order, and then they sat at the kitchen table to wait. Mathias spent the time searching through the refrigerator for drinks and other snacks, and when the doorbell finally rang, he was the first to run for the door.

 

Arthur waited at the table, and listened to Mathias's “where's the pizza?” He was rather shocked when he heard the answering, “what pizza? And who're you?”

 

Before Arthur had a chance to process what had been said, Mathias was walking into the kitchen with a confused look, followed by an equally confused Alfred. Arthur stared at them, and Alfred pointed at Mathias.

 

“Who's he?” Alfred asked, and Arthur blinked.

 

“A... A friend from England,” Arthur mumbled. He furrowed his brows, and looked at Alfred suspiciously. “What are you doing here? And how'd you know he wasn't my brother, anyway?”

 

“You called last night, I figured you wanted something,” Alfred said. He looked over at Mathias and frowned at him before looking back at Arthur. “And really? He doesn't have the monster-brows.”

 

Arthur pursed his lips and looked down at the counter. Were his eyebrows really that obvious? Granted, it was a family trait (everyone knew it came from their father), but still. He wondered if he should do something about it, thin them somehow.

 

While Arthur was thinking, Alfred had managed to pull Mathias into conversation. Had Arthur been paying attention, he would have noticed that Alfred had straightened his back and lowered his voice while he spoke. Mathias was taller than Alfred, and apparently had nothing to prove. He stared at Alfred, slouching slightly, an eyebrow arched in amusement. He didn't know Alfred enough to know that his behavior was unusual at best, but when he asked Alfred who he was, the answer was too funny.

 

“I'm Arthur's best friend!” Alfred proclaimed, tapping his chest with his thumb. At that, Arthur finally returned his attention to them, wondering when he and Alfred had become friends, let alone _best_ friends.

 

Mathias looked over at Arthur, and his expression was unreadable. Arthur had to admit that he had known Mathias long enough to distinguish between his various moods, but though he looked amused, he just couldn't tell. He was a bit worried that Mathias was rather disgusted with the new arrival (for reasons unknown), but then the doorbell rang again and Mathias went to grab the pizza.

 

“You didn't tell me he was coming,” Alfred said.

 

“It wasn't important,” Arthur muttered. “And I didn't call you.”

 

“Yeah you did.” Alfred pulled his phone out of his jacket pocket and held it up. “Call ID. Besides, I know your number.”

 

“Then it was an accident. I _didn't_ call you.”

 

“Sure you didn't.” Alfred plopped down at one of the chairs, and he looked around. “Big house. Looks a lot smaller from the outside.”

 

“My family's a bit bigger than yours,” Arthur mumbled. He wondered why he had let Alfred make himself comfortable inside, especially with Mathias visiting. He considered saying something, about how Alfred had interupted at an awkward time, but when Mathias returned with pizza and sat down next to Alfred, Arthur knew it was a lost cause. He kept from sighing, then when he saw that Mathias was speaking to Alfred quite normally, it occurred to him that Alfred's presence could work to his advantage.

 

Mathias seemed rather interested in talking to Alfred, and while Arthur didn't pay much attention to what was being said, he recognized that the conversation would likely continue, and would last through the movies if Alfred were to stay that long.

 

Arthur, content with the thought that Alfred would distract and amuse Mathias while Arthur sat in relative peace, joined took a slice of pizza when the box was opened.

 

Arthur didn't bring up Alfred leaving. He simply listened while Alfred and Mathias talked, mostly about the movies that they had rented. There was an unspoken agreement that Alfred was invited to stay, and Arthur let himself get lost in his own thoughts. He heard Alfred's questions about England, and life before Arthur moved away, as though through a filter. He paid it no mind; Alfred thought he was interesting for some reason (much like a child, Alfred would probably find something more interesting the next week), and Arthur didn't feel the need to butt into the conversation. Both Alfred and Mathias were distracted, and that worked for him.


	14. Chapter 14

It was when Arthur finally settled into his spot on the couch that he realized Alfred's presence may not be the best. He remembered their trip to the theater, and Alfred's response to the murder and demons on-screen. Alfred hadn't seemed at all bothered by the fact that they were watching a movie that centered around aliens, until he realized that the aliens were killing and hunting the humans.

 

Alfred had taken the spot next to Arthur on the couch when they had returned to the movie, and his hands had been clenched around Arthur's wrist almost as soon as the opening sequence had ended. Arthur tried to pay attention to the movie, but he was getting distracted by the alternating pressure on his arm. Mathias would occasionally look back and grin at Arthur, and wait for Arthur to frown before he looked back at the movie.

 

Arthur pretended not to notice how close Alfred was getting. If he noticed, he would have wondered at a hidden meaning, something that couldn't possibly happen (and that he didn't want, really). He didn't need a relationship, didn't deserve one. He could have gone on, but it was such an impossibility that there was no point even thinking about it.

 

If Mathias noticed anything odd, he never commented on it, or even stared. That further enforced Arthur's belief and insistence that his imagination was getting away with him, and that all thoughts not about the movie should cease. He let himself sink into the couch cushions even while Alfred watched the television with wide eyes, and when a girl on-screen screamed, Alfred echoed her.

 

The shout of terror shocked both Arthur and Mathias, and Mathias looked back with eyes narrowed in confusion. Alfred had managed to propel himself almost completely into Arthur's lap, his body pinning Arthur to the couch. Arthur was stunned and silent, and when Alfred looked down at him with wide eyes, Arthur turned bright red.

 

“Get off!” Arthur sputtered, and he began to shove at him.

 

Alfred seemed to have forgotten about Mathias's presence, something that Arthur dearly wished he had remembered. Alfred was still staring at him, and Arthur really couldn't get the leverage to shove him off. However, while Alfred forgot Mathias, Arthur couldn't hope to forget the fact that Mathias was _right there_ , and that he was _watching_ , and that the awkward placement of legs and flailing arms could be taken the wrong way (though Arthur had already convinced himself that there was no possible way it could be a result of mixed emotions and possible affections).

 

Arthur's thoughts were jumbled as he tried to think of something to do or say to get Alfred off him, and before he could stop himself and consider the consequences, he spat out, “Get off before I kick the shit out of you!”

 

Alfred froze, the movie forgotten in the background, and Mathias snorted. Alfred slowly looked back at the tv, and then carefully pulled his hands away from Arthur's wrist and backed away.

 

Arthur was mentally kicking himself. A quick glance at Mathias told him that he was laughing, but a look at Alfred told him that he had probably fucked up his relationship with the closest thing he had to a friend. Alfred had carefully returned to his seat, and was very obviously not looking at him. In fact, Alfred had made sure that there was a very defined space between them, an invisible line that was obviously meant to separate them.

 

Mathias continued to laugh when he turned back to the tv, and Arthur risked a glance towards Alfred. Alfred was facing the tv, but was watching Arthur from the corner of his eye. Arthur quickly turned his attention back to the movie, and he was determined to watch it through without paying any more attention to Alfred.

 

It wasn't easy, even though Alfred made no attempt to touch Arthur after that. They didn't look at each other, and Arthur played with his owns hands to distract himself when the movie couldn't keep his attention. He twisted his fingers, and refused to turn his head to look at Alfred. It didn't help that he could see Alfred's head turned to him from the corner of his eye. At least, he was sure Alfred was turned to him. It was hard to tell, but Arthur refused to shift and see if Alfred really _was_ looking.

 

Not that it mattered if Alfred was. After all, Alfred had been an ass, and Arthur had responded in a manner that was completely reasonable considering how Alfred had been in his lap and crushing him at the time.

 

At least, Arthur was sure his reaction had been reasonable. After all, Alfred had been far too close for comfort.

 

But if Alfred had been screwing around, then it would explain why Mathias had looked almost like he was laughing.

 

Arthur swallowed and narrowed his eyes at the television. He willed himself to keep his mind focused on the movie, but that was impossible. He was too busy worrying about the impression he had left. By acting too serious, it was possible he had sent across some kind of backwards message, and they were probably repulsed by what they thought he had meant. By reacting so strongly, he could have _implied_ that he thought more of Alfred (or Mathias) than he had let on before. And though he had never really told Alfred that he didn't care about gender, Mathias knew enough for misunderstandings to pop up. Misunderstandings he didn't need, and misunderstandings that would probably make him the laughingstock of the school if they ever traveled.

 

Arthur missed the rest of the movie, too distracted with worry and fear, and only realized that it had ended when the lights were turned on. He blinked and shut his eyes, and when he finally opened them again, he saw spots. Mathias had gone to the kitchen to grab a soda when the movie had ended, but Alfred remained just inside the doorway, not leaving the living room. He stared at Arthur while Mathias was occupied, and just when Arthur thought he was going to say something (possibly intelligent), Alfred suddenly ran back through the living room and pushed open the curtains.

 

“Snow!” Alfred shouted.

 

Arthur sighed. He really should have known better. After all, it was _Alfred_. He certainly wasn't known for his intellect (Arthur felt like an asshole for thinking it).

 

“Bet we're gonna have a white Christmas!”

 

While the thought seemed to excite Alfred, Arthur really couldn't care less. He had never felt any love for the snow, and a white Christmas sounded like hell (especially since he couldn't ditch Mathias, and a lot of snow would keep them trapped in the house with their parents).

 

“How much?” Mathias asked when he walked back into the living room. He held a red plastic cup in his hand, and walked over to look out the window with Alfred.

 

“About three inches,” Alfred said, speaking loudly as though Arthur would benefit from hearing him. “Should've watched the news this morning. Bet there's gonna be a lot more.” Alfred looked back, and he grinned at Arthur. “You guys should come over. Matt's got a rink set up in the backyard, we can screw around.”

 

“Rink?” Mathias took a drink. “Hockey?”

 

“Yeah. He's on some local team, so he has to practice a lot. We built a rink at home so... Well, when he doesn't have team practice, we can screw around.” Alfred had looked away from the window, and his eyes hesitated on the cup in Mathias's hand. Arthur decided that he wasn't going to acknowledge Alfred's invitation, and fled to the kitchen to escape any further invites.

 

Alfred followed, much to Arthur's dismay. He let himself into the fridge as Mathias had done, and pulled out a two-liter of soda. Then he realized that he had no idea where the cups were. Or anything else, for that matter.

 

Alfred stood awkwardly in the kitchen and looked around. It was almost as though he had just realized that he was in Arthur's house. He didn't notice when Arthur took the bottle from him, with the intent to pour out a couple cups. He was too busy staring at the counters, and the windows, and the coat hooks by the door. He almost dropped the cup that Arthur gave him, and pointed at a brown coat.

 

“That's yours,” Alfred pointed out.

 

Arthur wasn't sure if he was supposed to acknowledge Alfred's comment. It was so out of place and _obvious_. Hell, for such a stupid comment, it was unnecessarily confusing.

 

Alfred finally noticed the cup in his hand, and he took a drink. “So where's your room?”

 

Arthur blinked, and before he could come up with a response, Mathias had appeared to lead Alfred away. He winked at Arthur when he did so, and Arthur could swear he felt his blood turning to ice.

 

“It's up here,” Mathias told Alfred, and he ran up the stairs with Alfred close behind.

 

Arthur followed quickly, panicking about the possible repercussions about Alfred entering his room, then relaxed when he stepped onto the second floor. Once again, he was over-thinking things. When he had been back in England, he had always hung out in his room with Mathias, or one of his other friends, and nothing had ever happened.

 

Granted, Alfred seemed like the kind of person that could destroy anything in his path with a simple touch. Arthur wasn't sure he wanted to risk Alfred breaking something, even though there really wasn't anything he could break.

 

Arthur entered the room behind Alfred, and tried not to see how his face fell. His room was nothing special, and he knew that. He just hadn't thought that Alfred would be seeing it (ever), and he was surprised by how much it bothered him. Not that it should have mattered; it was his bedroom. There was nothing important in view or out of it. Nothing that needed to be hidden, or explained.

 

“You need more pictures,” Alfred decided, and Arthur nodded when he looked back. “You should paint it, too. It looks really boring in here. All white and stuff. You need color.” Alfred looked back, and his eyes were wide with something like excitement. “You should check out my room when you come over!”

 

“Err...” Arthur was sure that he was supposed to disagree and deny that he would visit Alfred again, but he was distracted by Mathias's laughter.

 

Mathias had been going through some of the drawers in Arthur's desk, but he stopped to look back at Alfred and Arthur while they talked. “Pink would be a good color,” he offered, and smirked when Arthur narrowed his eyes at him.

 

“I hardly think that pink would-” Arthur stopped when he heard a door slam shut, and he looked back out his door and down the hall. He could hear voices on the floor below, and his breath caught in his throat. His mother was home, and she was definitely going to see Alfred.

 

It wasn't as though Alfred was a secret. Arthur had never really meant to keep Alfred from his mother; it had just _happened_. Alfred wasn't someone to discuss. He was just a person, there was nothing really important about him. Discussing him would make him out to be something more than he was, and Arthur didn't want to raise suspicion (though there was nothing to be suspicious about, really).

 

“Arthur? Mathias? What do you want for dinner?” Mathias's mother called, and Alfred wandered over to the door to look down the hall.

 

“That your mom?” Alfred asked, and he started down the hallway before Arthur could correct him.

 

“My mom,” Mathias said before Alfred got too far. He raised his voice. “What is there?”

 

Arthur finally left his room to follow the other two, and the stairs creaked with the weight of the three boys. When Mathias's mother looked up, she blinked in surprise.

 

“Well, since you already had pizza, we might as well have something different. Your friend staying?”

 

Arthur's mother had been digging through the cupboards and putting away groceries, but she immediately looked back when she heard the word “friend.” She stared at Alfred without speaking, then her eyes passed over Arthur. Arthur avoided looking at her, and she instead looked back at Alfred.

 

“Who's this?” she asked, and Alfred thrust his hands out towards her.

 

“I'm Alfred,” he told her when she took his hand and shook it. “Nice to meet you!”

 

“Nice to meet you, too,” she said, smiling. “Are you staying?”

 

Alfred glanced at Arthur, who shrugged. He grinned and nodded. “Sure!”

 

Arthur's mother looked surprised, and then motioned to the fridge. “You want something to drink?”

 

“Sure!”

 

Arthur watched while Alfred retrieved a drink from the fridge, and his mother mouthed something behind Alfred's back so that only Arthur could see. Arthur shrugged, not knowing what she was trying to say, and she immediately stopped when Alfred stood straight up again.

 

“I can throw together some fish and chips,” Arthur's mother told them.

 

“I've had that before!” Alfred exclaimed, and he nodded to Arthur. “One of Mom's friends made some before. That one she was telling you about, from England.”

 

Arthur's mother had begun to gather supplies, but she stopped when she heard Alfred speak. Her eyebrows rose, and she looked at Arthur in shock when she knew that Alfred wasn't looking. Mathias was watching the events unfold while his own mother emptied the shopping bags and searched around to put away groceries. Arthur was struggling to find something to say, something that would make his mother stop looking at him like that, and make Mathias stop staring.

 

Instead, his mother spoke first. Arthur could tell that she was hesitating, probably because she didn't know exactly what was going on. “So where do you live, Alfred?” his mother asked.

 

Arthur took a breath. His stomach churned painfully as guilt set in, and he immediately regretted not telling his mother about where he had been when he had left home. Had he known that his mother would find out about what he had been keeping secret, _who_ he had been keeping secret, he would have done something, and given some hint so that she wouldn't feel so disappointed in him when she found out everything.

 

“Couple miles over, by the general store,” Alfred told her. He took a drink, and then held up his hand, index finger pointing to the ceiling. “It's past the park.”

 

Arthur's mother returned to preparing the food for dinner, and Alfred was invited to help her cook. He seemed quite interested in helping, and so Mathias and Arthur went to the living room with Mathias's mother to hang out.

 

Of course, “hanging out” was a very loose term for what was going on in the living room. The television was on, and while it would have made an excellent distraction and central point to the “hanging out” process, it was left ignored. Mathias's mother was more concerned with getting the two teens to help her hide some presents that she had grabbed for Arthur's family. Arthur had shown her the closet under the stairs, and had supplied her with the keys so that she could lock them inside without fearing someone finding them.

 

Arthur, even while he helped Mathias's mother with presents, couldn't keep himself from trying to listen in on the conversation in the kitchen. He was only able to catch parts of the conversation, but he heard enough to know that his mother had found out exactly how much time Arthur had spent with Alfred, as well as where Alfred's parents worked, and what he wanted to do later in life.

 

When his mother finally announced that dinner was ready, Arthur, Mathias, and Mathias's mother entered the kitchen to sit around the table. Arthur had been expecting his father and brothers to join them, but it turned out that his father had taken some extra hours at work, and his brothers had stayed at friends' houses. He was rather thankful for that; he wasn't sure what he would do if her had to sit through dinner with them leering at him.

 

As it was, dinner was relatively quiet. Conversation happened, but never really felt important. However, there was the part where Alfred revealed that he wanted Arthur over (and maybe Mathias, too) for Christmas Eve dinner, and Arthur's mom jumped on the idea immediately.

 

“I think it'd be great!” Arthur's mother exclaimed when Alfred had let his plan slip out. She looked over the Mathias's mother for agreement, and nodded at Alfred. “Mathias can meet new people and see a regular American dinner, and see more around town! You have my permission.” She grinned at Arthur, and her son was unable to decide whether her sudden enthusiasm was good or bad.

 

Dinner ended on a high note (in everyone's opinions but Arthur's—he was still dwelling on how his mother was acting), and Alfred remembered that he had to help his brother fix the skating rink they apparently had in their backyard. He turned down the offer of a ride home, and then said goodbye to everyone before they could insist on anything more to help him.

 

* * *

 

Mathias slept in the guest room with his mother that night, at her request. He didn't argue about sleeping in Arthur's room; it was obvious from her expression that he didn't want to be in there. Whether it was because Arthur's mother was angry about secrets or simply annoyed, he did not know.

 

Arthur had waited for his own mother. He sat in bed and stared at the wall, and expected to be met with anger and disappointment when she finally opened the door.

 

She didn't bother touching his desk or the wall when she walked in. Instead, she walked directly to his bed and sat down beside him. “We've avoided this for far too long,” she said, and she smoothed the sheets around her. “We need to talk.”


	15. Chapter 15

To say that Alfred was pleased a major understatement. He skipped almost the entire way home—through the snow and wind—so that when he finally burst in through the front door, Matthew frowned at him and asked what he had taken.

 

His mother had been equally surprised. She had been emptying the dishwasher and putting things away when he had run into the kitchen and hugged her, and she didn't pay any attention to the fact that he had run through the house with his shoes on, and instead asked what had happened.

 

Alfred was going to tell her. He was going to tell her that Mathias had talked, and that Arthur had had a boyfriend, and that he wasn't impossible, and that _he had a chance_ , and that they were coming for Christmas dinner and that maybe Arthur's almost cold exterior was just a front, and maybe Arthur liked him more than he let on, and _he had a chance_.

 

Instead, all that came out of his mouth was a garbled message that Karen couldn't possibly hope to understand at the speed it went. She was left to nod her head slowly and twist her lips in confusion, and attempt a smile. She wasn't sure _what_ had made him so excited; she hoped it wasn't something to worry about.

 

“Are you okay?” she asked, and he stopped to take a breath.

 

“The world's perfect,” Alfred managed, unable to wrap his mind around what he wanted to say, and unable to say it. “Perfect. Really perfect.”

 

With that stunning exclamation, Alfred left the kitchen and bounded up the stairs to his bedroom, leaving his stunned mother and brother in his wake while his father left the bathroom and wondered aloud what the hell had happened.

 

Karen only shrugged and resumed putting away dishes. “He'll tell us about it in the morning,” she said. “He said he was going to Arthur's earlier, so who knows what happened.”

 

Matthew snorted and Michael reached back to click off the light in the bathroom. Karen looked pointedly at Matthew, and he stared right back at her.

 

“What?” Matthew demanded.

 

Karen shook her head. “Please don't start something with your brother.”

 

“Wouldn't think of it.”

 

* * *

 

The rink that they had meant to fix up was forgotten in Alfred's excitement. It was dark, and neither wanted to wander outside in the cold and dark.

 

Matthew had finally gotten comfortable in bed, the LEDs on his clock telling him that it was just before midnight when Alfred decided to sneak into his bed.

 

Matthew tried to push him right back out. “Not again!” Matthew griped, but Alfred wasn't about to let himself get kicked out.

 

“C'mon, Matt,” Alfred whined. “Just tonight. Promise. Then I won't bother you again.”

 

“You're a shitty liar.”

 

Alfred succeeded in stealing Matthew's blanket, and he managed to fit his entire body under the covers with his brother. Matthew gave up the struggle and let Alfred do as he wanted. Like every other night that Alfred managed to find a scary movie to watch, Alfred was going to get his way.

 

Matthew turned his back to his brother and ignored the protests that his action brought about. He would deal with Alfred's problems in the morning, and not before that.

 

* * *

 

“Arthur had a boyfriend.”

 

Karen didn't act at all surprised by Alfred's announcement when he stepped into the kitchen that morning. Instead, she looked at the clock and then squinted at Alfred. “It's not noon yet. Why are you up?”

 

Alfred ignored her and climbed onto one of the bar stools that was pushed up against the counter. “Did you hear me? He had a boyfriend.”

 

“I heard you.” Karen pressed the palm of her hand against Alfred's forehead. “Are you sure you're not sick?”

 

“I'm serious.”

 

“And so am I.” Karen pulled her hand away and lightly slapped his cheek. He grabbed her fingers and she laughed before pulling away from him and looking down at the box of cereal she had pulled out of the cupboard before his announcement. “Well... You want cereal, or should I make eggs? I can't remember the last time you had a real breakfast on the weekend.”

 

“Eggs're cool,” Alfred said. He leaned forward on the counter and watched while she put away the cereal and then went in search of eggs. “And y'know, normal teenagers don't wake up before noon. Matt's just weird. And hockey-obsessed. Who wakes up at eight anyway?”

 

“He's serious about hockey. Just like you and football.” Karen paused when she found the eggs and a package of bacon. “Or you and Arthur.”

 

“Arthur's a person, not a sport.” Alfred frowned and watched while his mother put together their breakfast. It would only be the two of them, seeing as Michael had left with Matthew to watch his hockey practice. That was probably for the best; talking about dating a guy was probably easier with his mom, even <i>if </i>his dad was pretty cool with the whole gay thing. He wasn't sure his dad would be a lot of help with the whole Arthur situation.

 

Then again, his mother wasn't a guy, so really Alfred was just picking the less-awkward of his two choices.

 

“So he told you he used to have a boyfriend?”

 

“His friend did.”

 

Karen nodded while she cracked the eggs over a pan on the stove, and she dropped some bacon on another pan she had set out. It wasn't long before Alfred was lying on the counter and basking in the smell of bacon, and she glanced back at him. “Don't tell me you're going back to sleep.”

 

Alfred ignored her. “He's coming over for Christmas Eve with his friend.”

 

“Good.” Karen motioned with a hand and made sure he looked at her. “If he's here, I bet you'll be less likely to fight with Ivan.”

 

Alfred scowled and muttered something that sounded suspiciously like “hockey oaf” under his breath.

 

“Like I said, maybe Arthur can keep you in check.”

 

Alfred stuck his tongue out at Karen, a gesture she immediately returned.

 

“And before you pester me more, I heard you, and I'm happy.” Karen stirred the eggs with a spatula and flipped the bacon. “You're still going to help with dinner though.”

 

“Right,” Alfred said, and he averted his gaze. “About that...”

 

“You're helping,” Karen said bluntly, and Alfred groaned. “And the extra boxes of decorations are in the garage.”

 

“I didn't ask for those.”

 

“I've known you since before you were born. How many times do I need to remind you?”

 

Alfred snorted. “You think it'll be too much?”

 

“It's a part of your charm,” Karen said absently, and she moved the bacon and eggs from the stove. She slipped the food onto plates and dropped the pans into the sink before she put one of the plates before Alfred. “So, tell me about it.”

 

* * *

 

Alfred told his mother everything, then left to find the rest of the Christmas decorations. He hung lights and mistletoe about the house and garage, and managed to con his father into joining him when he returned with Matthew.

 

When they finished, Michael immediately complained that the house was too gaudy to look at, and praised Alfred with a pat on the back.

 

Alfred would have said he had never been happier, but the fact that Arthur was joining them for Christmas Eve dinner was far cooler than the decorations.

 

The fact that Alfred still had to wait a few days before Arthur was torture. While he was sure that Mathias was just a friend from back home (emphasis on _friend_ ), he didn't like the idea that Arthur was spending more time with someone other than him.

 

Of course, Arthur totally needed friends. Only having Alfred around all the time was awesome, but he needed to get out more. Karen had kind of hinted at it before, when she had told Alfred and Matthew about the dinner (and the New Year's Party that Alfred was planning on surprising Arthur with) that they could invite friends to. While Alfred wasn't big on Arthur becoming too familiar with Matthew's hulking asshole of a friend, Ivan was someone Arthur could at least meet.

 

When Christmas Eve finally came, Alfred was still dwelling on that when he opened the front door to glare at Ivan. Ivan looked just as pleased to see Alfred as Alfred was to see him, which meant that Ivan smiled like some creep while Alfred leveled him with a glare.

 

“You're not as intimidating as you think you are,” Matthew was kind enough to remind Alfred when he snuck up behind him. “Hey Ivan.”

 

“Matthew.” Ivan nodded and pushed his way in past Alfred, who stood in place so that Ivan would have to either skirt around him or shove him. The fact that Ivan actually pushed him had Alfred waiting for a fight, until he saw Arthur.

 

With a glare, Alfred let Ivan past without a fight, then smiled when Mathias entered the door.

 

“Nice,” Mathias said when he looked around, and he nodded. “Very cool.”

 

“Awesome, right?” Alfred laughed. “I painted the living room myself.”

 

Arthur hadn't stepped into the house. He waited at the door, as if he wanted Alfred to invite him in before he could be sure. Alfred was happy to do so, and clapped him on the shoulder.

 

“Hey Artie!” Alfred said when he pulled Arthur inside, and Arthur looked at him as though he had smelled something disgusting before he grimaced. Alfred was pretty sure it had been the name.

 

Arthur proved him right with a curt, “It's _not_ Artie,” and Alfred's smile grew (if that was even possible).

 

Whenever Arthur was annoyed, his accent really stood out. It was pretty awesome, in Alfred's opinion.

 

“Sure thing,” Alfred said in response, and while he would've happily grabbed Arthur's hand to take him deeper into the house, he refrained and nudged his shoulder. Ivan and Mathias didn't know about him, and he wasn't sure he wanted to give Ivan the chance to broadcast possibly damning information to the rest of the school. Even _if_ it meant he couldn't be as touchy as he wanted.

 

Then again, he didn't want to act touchy in front of his parents. That would be weird.

 

Alfred's mind, ever at work, told him that he was acting like a girl and he needed to stop it before Ivan decided to start a hockey match or something to make him prove his manliness. It was highly unlikely and probably stupid, but Alfred didn't want to risk it. He was good at hockey, but Ivan was a cheater. He didn't want a puck in the teeth or something. That would be awkward if he wanted to kiss Arthur in the future or something.

 

Speaking of Arthur, he was kinda sinking back while he walked. Alfred asked him if he was going to have the turkey or the ham, and when Arthur shrugged, Alfred suggested a lot of both.

 

Arthur smiled a little, and Alfred couldn't be happier. Arthur was always so depressed and serious; it was nice knowing that he could make him happy, or something. Even if Arthur went right back to his whole depressed-mood thing after.

 

Then Alfred could just make him laugh again. Arthur could try to hide it as much as he wanted, but Alfred knew he could make him laugh whenever he wanted to (whether Arthur wanted to or not).

 

Arthur returned to his blank expression, and Alfred grinned at him in an attempt to force him to smile again. The corners of Arthur's mouth deepened, and Alfred was sure he'd won.

 

When Alfred heard talking, he looked up quickly and removed his hand from Arthur's arm. Karen was busily gathering dinner up and inviting everyone to take a seat in the dining room while she coerced both Matthew and Alfred into helping her move food. Before Alfred helped her, he made sure that he had claimed the chair beside Arthur so that even if Arthur didn't speak much, his attention would still be on him.

 

* * *

 

“You'll have to come over for New Year's,” Alfred told Arthur when they helped carry the dirty dishes to the kitchen. Matthew and Ivan had fled for the hockey rink outside, and Mathias had followed them to watch. “Dad found some fireworks in the basement. We can watch the ball drop and everything!”

 

Arthur looked like he was going to say no, and Alfred quickly pouted before he could do so. Arthur hesitated, and when Karen spoke up to say that she had already bought party spirals, he gave in. Alfred grinned at him, but Arthur had busied himself loading the dishwasher so that he didn't see it.

 

“It's supposed to snow, so it's gonna be awesome!” Alfred told him, already planning in his head. Mathias was definitely gonna come, and Alfred didn't want to waste any time. He could go down to Arthur's house and pick them up. It was becoming kind of normal for him to randomly show up, so it wouldn't be weird at all. In the end, he would spend more time with Arthur, and Mathias wouldn't have him all to himself. It was a win/win situation.

 

“Sounds like fun,” Arthur said, though he spoke in that kind of end-of-the-world monotone that Alfred had gotten used to. Karen patted Arthur on the shoulder when she walked past him, and Arthur watched her walk away.

 

“It'll be cool,” Alfred assured him. Arthur looked like he was ready to go home, and Alfred wanted to walk him back. Except that Mathias was there, and so was Ivan, so walking him back would look damning and incriminating.

 

“I should get back,” Arthur muttered, and he looked past Alfred and towards the window that looked out on the rink and the three other teens. He just stared, and after a moment shook himself out of whatever trance he had fallen into. Then he sidled around Alfred and walked to the door, where he knocked on the window to get Mathias's attention. Mathias seemed to get the message that Arthur mouthed, and said his goodbyes before he walked back into the house.

 

“Pretty cool,” was Mathias's only remark while he waited for Arthur to say his own goodbyes to Alfred and his family.

 

Then the two were walking out the front door and away, and Karen was giving Alfred a look that said he had missed something.

 

“I'll walk with you!” Alfred shouted after he had grabbed his jacket and run out the door.

 

* * *

 

The rest of the week passed rather peacefully, if not slowly. Alfred had gotten into a grand total of nine fights with his brother, usually over comments about how his “femininity was showing” whenever he talked about (or thought about) New Year's Eve. There would have been more fights, except that Matthew had gotten new hockey gear for Christmas, and Alfred had a new collection of games to play. There were also the times that they had to go out shopping for supplies for the party, as their parents had decided to go out for the night and let the kids have their fun (with only a few friends, of course).

 

Alfred wasn't completely sure how he was supposed to respond when he found out (right before the party) who his brother had invited. It seemed he was meant to suffer, as Matthew had wanted Ivan (that bastard) and his other friend, José (that other bastard), to come over.

 

Add to that the fact that Alfred didn't know whose side Mathias was on, and Alfred was pretty sure his night wasn't going to be as excellent as he wanted. His only hope lay in the fact that Arthur was going to come, and be the usual Arthur, and be normal and kinda snippy but blush-y and passive-aggressive, or something like that (and not the kinda passive-aggressive way that Matt got sometimes. _That_ was just dickish).

 

Michael and Karen left almost an hour before people were supposed to arrive, so Alfred and Matthew spent their time fighting and trying to figure out who would do what. Alfred ended up starting the fire in the small pit on the back deck while Matthew shoved trays of food into the oven. Alfred stole a stuffed pizza pocket when he walked back inside, and crammed it into his mouth only to find that Mathias and Arthur were already inside the house and staring at him (though really, Mathias was the one staring. Arthur was pointedly looking away).

 

“Hey guys,” Alfred said, though his words were lost through the pizza pocket in his mouth.

 

“Happy New Year's,” Mathias said, though he really didn't mean it. He was looking around at the living room again, and Alfred saw a chance and took it.

 

“Got some video games!” Alfred exclaimed when he swallowed. “Brand new and awesome!”

 

Mathias needed no more information. He readily followed Alfred to the television upstairs where the systems were set up (as well as the tables where a lot of snacks would end up later in the night).

 

When Alfred finally returned downstairs, he found that Arthur had remained by the couch, and he eagerly pulled him into a conversation. He had actually thought about what he was going to do, and it involved the big screen tv in the living room, and the entirety of the movie cabinet (and the other game console he had hidden in the shelves).

 

He just had to wait for Matthew to get his friends and get them out of the way upstairs or outside, and then he and Arthur could play game and watch movies or something.

 

* * *

 

His plan was mostly unbeatable. Matthew, Ivan and José ended up playing some combat game against Mathias, and Alfred was left downstairs with Arthur to watch movies and play games. He quickly found that games were Arthur's weak point, and that in order for Arthur win a single game, they had to be on the same team. He didn't mind in the least, though he knew he wouldn't be beating any team high scores.

 

Arthur wasn't the best at playing, but he _was_ being funny about reacting to everything. He had started out solemn and detached, and had stared at the screen as though it had wronged him somehow. Then he would start to twitch when he had died, until finally he was throwing curses at the television and mashing the buttons in wild attempts to gain some control in whatever battle they were involved in. He never really noticed the food in front of him except when Alfred had placed a pizza pocket in his hand, and was more concerned with trying to kill the “infuriating wanker” that had managed to blind side him at the beginning of the game.

 

It was fun. Until Arthur had decided that enough was enough and somehow managed to kill himself and Alfred at the same time in a desperate attempt to kill the other team.

 

Alfred stared in surprise at the screen when “YOU LOSE” flashed across is, and he glanced over to see that Arthur had become very still. Arthur opened and closed his mouth a couple times, but never ended up saying anything.

 

There was a bang and shouts above, and Alfred could almost imagine the mess upstairs. When he thought about it, he realized how odd he probably appeared. He had used the excuse that there weren't enough controllers upstairs for them all to play, but he was sure that someone was suspicious. They _had_ to be.

 

Despite Alfred's certainty that someone knew he was being _weird_ , no one came. There was no accusation, no confrontation. If anyone came downstairs, they were only headed for the fridge to grab more soda or snacks. They barely paid any attention to the teens on the couch, and then disappeared back upstairs to continue playing whatever game they had moved onto.

 

Alfred and Arthur continued playing games for most of the night. They stopped a few times to snack and sit in front of the fire to get away from the stuffiness of the house, and it was just a surprisingly normal night.

 

The only difference was that five minutes before midnight, Matthew led the charge downstairs to meet Alfred so that they could pull out the fireworks that had been stored in the basement, and then they all gathered out behind the house with a watch.

 

Matthew had taken one look at Alfred's twitchy fingers and had decided that he would fire it himself.

 

It wasn't as though Alfred really minded. Sure, he liked fireworks. Yeah, he liked firing them more than watching them. Yeah, Matthew was being a dick about keeping them away from him.

 

So Alfred was a bit annoyed. He huffed when he sat down on the porch, behind the others and beside Arthur. Matthew played with a match, and Arthur smiled slightly, just enough to show his lips twitch. Alfred watched him, and Mathias said something when Matthew finally lit the fuse and ran back to the porch.

 

They all waited for the bang, José making an ass of himself with his lame jokes while Mathias poked fun at Ivan's height. A deadly venture, for sure.

 

The bang finally came, and the roman candle shot into the air before exploding in a shower of lights.

 

He didn't know what had happened, but Alfred was kissing Arthur, and Arthur was kissing back while the others watched the lights above.


	16. Chapter 16

Arthur collapsed on his bed at one in the morning on the first day of the new year. He had run. That was the only was to describe it. He had walked away from Alfred, said he was beat, and hurried Mathias back. Mathias had fallen asleep on his bed in the guest room, and Arthur hid in his own bed.

 

Arthur was lonely. He knew that. He also knew that he had spent a _lot_ of time with Alfred. Alfred was friendly, and likable. Arthur hadn't thought about it when he had kissed back, but as soon as he had pulled away his mind had gone into overdrive.

 

It wasn't any sort of affection. He had simply responded because Alfred paid attention to him. He had found himself appreciating Alfred's kindness even if it was towards someone as worthless as himself.

 

It was a mistake. Arthur hadn't meant to do it. Alfred had been caught up in the moment, or he had been playing. It wasn't likely that he was playing, but it was very possible that Alfred had only done it as a friend. If it was as a friend, then Arthur had taken it ( _was_ taking it) too seriously. Arthur was taking it the wrong way, no matter how it was.

 

Maybe he had become too close.

 

* * *

 

Arthur didn't care to remember what his mother had said to him that night after Alfred had been over for dinner, but her words echoed in his head when he tried to sleep. For hours he had stared at the wall beside his bed, and could only hear her words about doctors and lies and counseling. Her words had left him flustered, and he hadn't had a full night's sleep since them. She had promised a doctor's visit in the near future, as soon as Mathias returned home, and Arthur could only think of medication and tests.

 

He wasn't a freak.

 

Well, he _was_ , but he didn't want to become a test subject. He didn't really want to become a medicated number in some stranger's computer. He didn't want people to look at him. They would know, somehow.

 

The thought had kept him up, and had made the days hard. He barely remembered Christmas, and the days between. He had played some games with Mathias, shown him the school building, the mall. It had been through a haze, and by the time he had returned home from Alfred's, he realized how much time he had wasted. Mathias had only seen things with his mother, and in a few short days Mathias would return to England and Arthur would have to deal with doctors and counselors.

 

 

* * *

 

They were at the airport far too soon. Arthur and Mathias didn't have much to say to one another, but Arthur did offer an apology when their mothers were out of earshot. Mathias had shrugged it off, saying that they would see each other again in the summer and then they'd be able to make up for wasted time.

 

Arthur knew that wasn't true, and that he couldn't make up for anything, but Mathias acted convinced and sure that he was telling the truth. It was nice, but he didn't want to hear lies. He would rather people be honest with him.

 

Mathias and his mother boarded the plane too soon, and Arthur finally had to acknowledge that he had to face both Alfred and a doctor in the following days.

 

He didn't know what was worse.

 

* * *

 

The questions were the same. The doctor was the same. The room was one over. His mother was beside him, looking away but forcing him to be honest. She would look back at him sometimes, and he would stumble over his words. The doctor would nod and write something down in his notebook, and Arthur would shrink deeper into his chair.

 

When the doctor asked him about suicide, his mother refused to look at him again. Arthur had made her angry. He questioned himself then, and wondered if her anger was because he had failed, or because he had tried to kill himself. And if she was angry because he had tried, was it because she cared, or because she thought it was an insult to the fact that she had given birth to him.

 

Arthur didn't tell him any of that. There was no reason to, and from the way the doctor looked at him, he knew there was _something_ wrong _._ He had to know that Arthur wasn't being honest, and he had to know that Arthur didn't _want_ to be honest.

 

In the end, Arthur's fate was handed to him on a piece of paper. _50Mg Zoloft_. The doctor told him they would start small, and that the dosage would likely need to be adjusted to a higher level once he was introduced to it. Arthur didn't ask him why he thought it would need to change.

 

“I'll have the secretary fax something to the pharmacy, and that should be filled in the hour.” The doctor scribbled something else in his notebook, then looked over it at Arthur. “You're not going to cooperate at all if you go to a counselor, will you?”

 

Arthur didn't move, and the doctor sighed. He ran his fingers through his graying hair and shrugged. “We'll let the Zoloft take over for now, then we'll work on that.”

 

That was it.

 

Arthur and his mother left the office and returned to their car, and Arthur stared at the little slip of paper in his hands once he had buckled himself. It shouldn't have felt like a death sentence, but it did.

 

“I'm thinking Subway,” his mother said once she had started the car. “Shouldn't be too many people. We can get a booth. We'll swing by the pharmacy later.”

 

Arthur shrugged. He didn't care either way. He just wanted to get home as soon as possible to that he wouldn't have to deal with his mother's questions.

 

Of course, Subway was something he wasn't able to avoid, and the last place he had expected her to confront him. He had thought that the doctor's office and that night in his room would have been the end of it.

 

She had thought ahead. She had grabbed a booth around the corner where no one ordering or walking through would be able to see them, and she had started talking about things that had to change.

 

Things that _she_ had to change.

 

Arthur ate his sandwich numbly while she told him about his brothers, and how she had to make them realize that the “normal sibling bullying” had to change. She wanted to work less hours so that she could pick him up from school, and she wanted to to find something they could both do together. Whether it was grocery shopping or going out to eat, she wanted to get Arthur out of the house.

 

Arthur had wanted to tell her that he wasn't insane. He wasn't on suicide watch (he was too scared of pain), he wasn't a flight risk, there was no reason for her to become so concerned and involved in his affairs.

 

He didn't tell her any of what he was thinking. She gave him chances to do so; she paused when she talked, and let long silences fall between them.

 

“I'm going to have to tell your father,” she told him, and he tightened his fingers around his sandwich. “I don't know if I can get out of telling your brothers, but they deserve to know.”

 

“Why?” Arthur muttered, and he quickly took a bite of his sandwich in case she asked him to say more.

 

“You don't think they want to know why you've been so quiet?” She wrapped up the rest of her sandwich and pulled her drink closer. “And you completely blew off football with them last summer. I don't think I have to tell you how weird that is.” She slid her hand across the table and patted his wrist. “You should have Alfred come play. Maybe we can get Mathias back this summer.”

 

Arthur shrugged, and she squeezed his hand in hers.

 

“We'll figure things out,” she told him.

 

* * *

 

School couldn't come soon enough. Arthur had had enough of sitting around while his brothers stared at him and his father tried to pull him into conversation. When dinner had finished, he had returned to his room and set out the bottle of pills on his desk. He gathered his things for school and put them in his bag, then took a book that he had to read for one of his classes. He crawled into bed without changing out of his clothes and read until he was tired, and tried not to think about school, or dealing with his parents.

 

* * *

 

Arthur found school just as stressful as he had left it, if not more so. He had never managed to go during break to get work done, and so he had to sort through ballots that had been submitted before vacation for upcoming events in between classes.

 

His advanced algebra class was absolutely miserable. He had managed to miss a lot of the questions on his homework, and the “back-to-class” quiz was a failure. His English class was only slightly better, and his teacher was kinda enough to never call on him. By the end of the day, he had locked himself in the student council office and refused to leave until the votes were tallied.

 

Arthur never saw Francis or Chelles while he was working, which pissed him off more than he cared to admit. It didn't seem fair that they were probably out enjoying themselves while he actually did work. Only once was he disturbed from his work, and that was when someone knocked on the door.

 

Thinking it was Francis coming to harass him, Arthur gladly put down his pen and walked to the door. He was ready to tell Francis exactly where he could put his lack of drive and laziness when he unlocked and opened the door, except it wasn't Francis looking back at him.

 

Alfred didn't get the chance to finish saying “Hey!” before Arthur had shut the door and locked it. Alfred was probably surprised, but not as surprised as Arthur.

 

Arthur had forgotten Alfred during the stress of returning to school and having trouble with his classes. However, since Alfred had kindly surprised him with his little visit, he remembered exactly what had happened the last time they had met.

 

He didn't want any part of it. He wasn't sure _why_ Alfred was sticking around after humiliating him and almost outing both of them on New Year's. _And where the hell had Alfred gotten that idea?_ Arthur had never told him any of that, which was only natural. Telling Alfred he was gay (or at least not really concerned about the sex of the person he was kissing) would have seemed liked a proposal or something.

 

Arthur ignored Alfred's pounding on the door when he walked back to his desk and sat down. With his way of thinking, Alfred telling him that he was gay could have been a come on, or something. Arthur hunched down over his desk and picked up his pen to continue tallying everything. There was no reason for him to think that anything Alfred said meant anything. He wasn't a fool, and he wasn't a thirteen year-old girl. He wasn't lovestruck, he wasn't attracted at all to Alfred. Alfred was just a little bit nice, and Arthur was in a constant state of confusion. That was it.

 

Alfred called through the door between bangs, and Arthur clenched his fists. “Go home! I'm busy and won't be leaving for a while!”

 

Alfred's voice was muffled through the thick wood. Something about Arthur not going home alone.

 

“I'm not a girl!” Arthur shouted back, and he stared down at his sheet of tallies. He was intent on not answering again, and didn't have to respond again. The noise stopped, and Arthur hoped he wouldn't get caught when he left that night.

 

* * *

 

Arthur managed to stay safe for the next three days. His mother had reminded him that the medication still had a week to kick in when he had mentioned his classes, and told him that he shouldn't judge it too soon. He cursed them for not working while at the same time he told himself it wouldn't work anyway because there was either nothing wrong or he was too messed up for it to do anything.

 

He had to keep reminding himself that things were supposed to get better while he was in class. He would get back on his feet and he would get better grades and he wouldn't feel quite as miserable as always.

 

That was hard when it seemed like people were against him. It had taken only a student council meeting to hit him back down.

 

Prom needed a committee. They still had to figure out the events for winter carnival. Clubs were looking into award banquets for sports, as well as parties for members involved. There was supposed to be a guest speaker during one of the upcoming pep rallies, and no one could decide on who to pick and what topic for the speaker to cover.

 

Arthur had spoken up for the speaker and offered to make calls to the people on the list, but the adviser who had stopped in to watch the proceedings had spoken up.

 

“Arthur, you do everything. Why not have Francis do it? I can't remember the last time he did something.” Before Arthur could attempt to argue, the teacher had continued. “You need a break, and Francis can take over and do some work.”

 

That had been it. That had ended the entire conversation. The meeting ended and Arthur had gone back the the student council office (after Francis had smiled at him, as though he had won some sort of victory). Arthur had been alone in the office and had slumped down onto the comfy couch inside.

 

He should have been relieved. He should have been happy for the break, and happy that he wouldn't have anything else to worry about.

 

Instead, it felt like Arthur had been kicked in the stomach. While the suggestion that Francis take over had obviously been for the best, it still hurt. Arthur was sure he had done something wrong for the adviser to suggest Francis over him in front of _everyone_ on the student council. There was probably nothing behind it. Maybe his adviser could tell there was something going on, and so he had thought it was better for Arthur to not do anything.

 

Arthur was too busy dwelling on what he probably did wrong to notice that Alfred had slipped into the student council office and locked the door behind him.


	17. Chapter 17

Alfred didn't make a noise when he walked into the office and circled around Arthur's desk. Arthur had turned over on the couch so that his back was to the rest of the room, unaware that he was no longer alone. He was intent on lying there and seething for as long as it took to remove Francis's voice from his head, and didn't hear the creak when Alfred sat down in his desk chair.

 

Alfred lay his head on the desk and stared towards Arthur. Neither spoke, and Alfred began to run his index finger back and forth over the glossy wood. He made a squeak a couple times when he pressed too hard with his finger, and the third times Arthur spoke.

 

“What are you doing in here?”

 

“I wanna talk.”

 

Arthur almost jumped up in shock. He had honestly believed that either Francis or Chelles had snuck in, and Alfred's voice was the last thing he expected. He stiffened on the couch and tried to decide whether he should sit up, of if he was better off remaining lying down. Lying down, he had a better chance of avoiding looking at Alfred or saying something he didn't want to say.

 

“There's nothing to talk about,” Arthur decided, his voice slightly muffled by the couch cushions.

 

Alfred laughed, but it wasn't the happy or obnoxious laugh that he had had before. It sounded hollow. “Liar.” Alfred leaned back in the chair and it groaned beneath him. “Why're you avoiding me?”

 

Arthur shut his eyes and curled up, as though he were trying to sleep. “I'm not avoiding you.”

 

When Alfred snorted, Arthur clenched his fists.

 

“I'm not going to play your games,” Arthur muttered.

 

The only sound in the room was Alfred turning back and forth in the chair. He kept his palms on the desk before him and watched Arthur attempt to bury himself in the couch cushions.

 

“You're stupid,” Alfred finally said. Arthur turned over to look at him with eyes narrowed in anger, but Alfred wasn't finished. “What, do you think the whole gay thing was a lie to sweeten you up or something? Or maybe hanging out in the park was another way to trick you or something.”Alfred pouted and leaned forward on the desk. “Hell. They almost caught us, y'know? Don't think I've ever been that scared. That'd be a stupid risk if I didn't care.”

 

Arthur looked back towards the cushion. It was easier to simply ignore Alfred and hoped he went away.

 

Sadly, Alfred wasn't easily dismissed and ignored. He promptly let Arthur know that.

 

“I'm not leaving until you talk to me.”

 

Arthur would have rolled his eyes in annoyance had they had been open. Instead, he held them shut more tightly and started thinking of a comeback that wouldn't make him sound stupid. While he tried to think of something, Alfred continued talking. And talking. And talking.

 

“Will you shut up?” Arthur finally asked when he turned over and got up from the couch. Alfred didn't leave the chair but fell silent, and Arthur grabbed his bag from the floor. He placed it on the desk and started to put the papers from his desk into folders, and then into the bag. “Go home.”

 

“Don't wanna.” Alfred pulled Arthur's bag off the desk and into his lap and finished filling it with papers. “And I'm holding your bag hostage until you talk to me.”

 

“I did talk to you,” Arthur pointed out, but Alfred apparently disagreed.

 

“You said like, five words. I want to actually do stuff. Like get you to stop ignoring me? I mean, you _obviously_ like me. So why run away?”

 

“I don't like you.”

 

“Liar.”

 

“That's what you think.”

 

Alfred waved a finger at him. “You're having a serious river-in-Brazil problem.”

 

Arthur had to stop despite himself and think over what Alfred had said. He wasn't sure exactly what reference he was trying to make (if it was a reference at all), and after careful consideration he frowned at him.

 

“Do you mean the Nile?”

 

“Right. River in Brazil.”

 

“But it's in...” Arthur shook his head and tried to grab for his bag.

 

Alfred pulled it out of reach. “You like me. I like you. I don't know what's going on in your head, but whatever it is, forget about it.”

 

“You're making a lot of accusations,” Arthur said, and he managed to snatch his bag back. Unfortunately, Alfred didn't actually let go of the bag and let himself be pulled along with it. Arthur reached around and tried to pry Alfred's hands off, but it was no use. Instead of letting go, Alfred switched his grip over to Arthur's wrists.

 

“Are they accusations when they're true?”

 

“ _Yes_ , but it's not true!”

 

“It's true, and you know it. You like me. We kissed on New Year's, and you liked _that_ too. We hang out, we have fun, you like being with me, you like me.” Alfred yanked Arthur closer.

 

“How do you know I'm not being nice because everyone makes fun of you behind your back?” Arthur snapped. He couldn't afford to let Alfred think like that. There was no reason for Alfred to get swept along by lies and things that couldn't possibly be true. “How do you know I wasn't just being nice because you were gay, and I felt bad because there probably aren't any other gays in this town or school? You're not _all-knowing_ , you're an idiot that thinks too hard and makes up information that suits your own needs!”

 

“I already know you're gay,” Alfred said with a shrug, though he averted his eyes and wouldn't look at Arthur's face. “Or bi. Whatever. Mathias told me. Besides, you were hanging out with me _way_ before I told you I was gay. Remember?”

 

Arthur freed one of his wrists from Alfred, and he could feel his face heating up. Anger or embarrassment, he had no idea what he was feeling. He just knew that he was probably bright red, and he hated that he was so transparent when he tried his hardest not to be.

 

“Arthur, don't be a dick. Just... I dunno, be happy or something.”

 

“You really think you have a right to say that? What are you, fourteen?”

 

“Well, you're only sixteen,” Alfred retorted. “Besides, I mean, I told you about my grandparents. You think getting disowned didn't hurt? I mean, yeah, I'm young, you're young, but seriously. We might have enough experience between the two of us to figure something out.”

 

“I doubt that,” Arthur grumbled.

 

Alfred shrugged and let go of Arthur's wrist. “Eh, enough of the serious shit. Wanna grab some fries? I'm starving.”

 

Arthur frowned and grabbed his bag. He zipped it up and reached past Alfred to pull his jacket from the back of the chair. “It's cold out,” Arthur told him, but Alfred wasn't phased in the least.

 

“I have an extra scarf if you're cold.”

 

“I don't need it.”

 

“So you're coming.”

 

Arthur would have protested, but he realized the futility of the action. Alfred was good at twisting his words and coercing him into joining him. Not only that, but Arthur wanted to go. He wanted to go, but he didn't want to give Alfred yet another chance to see how pathetic he was.

 

When Alfred led the way towards a nearby Wendy's, Arthur walked beside him and listened to him talk. Alfred was cheerful, jumping around and talking about the projects he had to prepare for class. Arthur had ended up with Alfred's scarf, and he used it to hide the lower half of his face.

 

“We should do this more often,” Alfred decided while they walked. “You need to get out more. Be less depressed and all.”

 

“I'm not depressed,” Arthur shot back.

 

“Eh. You're happy around me, so that's cool. Just means you have to hang out with me more.”

 

Arthur couldn't think of anything to say to throw Alfred off. He shoved his fists in his jacket pockets and glared at the ground, only for Alfred to bump his arm with his elbow.

 

“We should go on more dates.”

 

“This isn't a date,” Arthur quickly corrected, but Alfred shrugged.

 

“Yeah it is. This is like... I dunno. The fifth date?”

 

“We haven't been on any dates,” Arthur said bluntly. “And this isn't one either.”

 

“Sure we have, and it is.” Alfred pulled his gloved hands out of his pockets and began to count with his fingers. “Remember we went to the movie? And Matt's hockey game. Then we hung out at the park, though that was kinda half a date because it was you just trying dessert at my place, then we went to McDonald's... Oh, and New Year's. Even though everyone else was there. See? So four and a half dates.”

 

Arthur had stopped to stare at Alfred, and he narrowed his eyes. “I wasn't aware those were dates.”

 

“They were.” Alfred stopped walking and looked back. “So, this is gonna be date five and a half. Maybe tomorrow we could have a half date? I can bring in lunch and we can have it in the office or something. Then we'll have a full six.”

 

Arthur started walking again, and he rather wished that Alfred's scarf could swallow him up and make him disappear.

 

“That sounds nice,” Arthur muttered, and Alfred beamed.

 

* * *

 

True to his word, Alfred was in the office the following day with an armful of McDonald's bags. He talked and laughed while Arthur tried to work on papers and figure out what he was going to do about prom. There was still a committee to set up for prom, as well as getting the seniors to finally decide on a theme for graduation, and Arthur taking on the tasks himself.

 

Alfred appeared the next day, and the day after that. He was more than happy to lean on Arthur's desk and watch him write, pointing out errors or suggesting ideas. His presence was welcome; Arthur had company and someone to bounce ideas off, someone that didn't look at him as though he was going to ruin everything or run to teachers demanding that citations be handed out.

 

One day, Alfred stopped Arthur's hand from writing. A committee had been chosen for prom, and one of the first drafts for planned events and themes. Alfred turned the paper around to look at it before Arthur could start making notes on it, and he whistled.

 

“So, you're my date for prom, right?”

 

Arthur frowned and pulled the paper back. “That's not happening.”

 

“It'll be fun.” Alfred nudged at Arthur's hand, and Arthur pulled away. “Pizza, movies, stars...”

 

“I don't think they're going to serve pizza at the prom anyway,” Arthur muttered. He started writing on the paper before him, trying to see how a budget would work out with what the committee wanted to do.

 

“Never said we were going to prom.”

 

“You said prom date, so-”

 

“Prom date, but not at prom. Matt's been eying this girl, and he might get lucky and go with her. I can probably get my parents out of the house. They like going on dates and stuff.”

 

“Freshmen and sophomores can't go to prom unless they're with a junior or senior.” Arthur stopped writing and put his pen down. He couldn't really see anything wrong with the paper. It was possible he could let this one go, consequences be damned, and let the prom committee go ahead with their plans. It might even stop the talk of the dictator in the student council office.

 

Temporarily, at least.

 

“I thought you said Matt was interested in someone out of school,” Arthur muttered.

 

“He likes Ivan's older sister, but she only thinks of him like a little brother. So now he's going after some girl in his math class.” Alfred leaned back in his chair and stretched his arms over his head. “We should go to the park again.”

 

“It's freezing out.” Arthur pointed towards the window with his pen. “Besides, I have to go out with my mum.”

 

“Maybe tomorrow then.”

 

“Tomorrow won't be any better,” Arthur pointed out, and Alfred shrugged.

 

“Oh well. We'll figure it out later.”

 

* * *

 

“You want me to make scones?” Arthur's mother placed a bag of flour in the cart and checked the shopping list she had made. “You want something to drink? You looked like you liked the iced tea they had at that restaurant the other day.”

 

“It was good,” Arthur said, and he twisted his hands around the handlebar of the cart. He pushed it after her, and she led him down an aisle of bottled sodas and cases of water. She stopped to grab a bottle of iced tea and dropped it in the cart before moving on. “You've been out a few times after school. Having fun with friends?”

 

“Don't know if you can call it that.”

 

His mother chuckled and turned into the next aisle. “Tea? There's Earle Grey and that other kind you like.”

 

“That's fine.”

 

“I'll give you money if you go again.”

 

“I have money.”

 

“I'll give you more. Don't argue with me.” She grabbed boxes of tea from the shelf and dropped them in the cart. “Are you hanging out with Alfred? He said something about hanging out with you after school sometimes.”

 

“Yeah. We went to Wendy's.”

 

His mother chuckled. “You hate fast food.”

 

“They have good fries.”

 

“Sure they do.” His mother headed for the freezers and hummed to herself. “They have cordon bleu. You want it for dinner?”

 

“Sounds French,” Arthur said dryly.

 

She laughed when she pulled the box from the freezer, and she tossed it in the cart. “Your vice president annoying you again?”

 

“He's always annoying.”

 

“He's probably not that bad.”

 

“I think he is.”

 

His mother shrugged. “Milk?”

 

“Don't like milk.”

 

“For cereal?”

 

“Sure.”

 

She picked through the milks for a carton and placed it in the cart. “Have Alfred over more. Your dad's out of town on Saturday for a conference. You could order pizzas and watch movies or something. I'm sure your brothers wouldn't mind leaving their games for you.”

 

“Maybe.” Arthur shrugged and pushed the cart after his mother.

 

* * *

 

Alfred had been more than happy to go home with Arthur after school Friday night. Arthur was wary of the entire venture, and had been up the night before fretting about it. He still wasn't completely sure what it was he and Alfred had; Alfred claimed it was a “like” situation, while Arthur was leaning more towards young people misidentifying their emotions.

 

Either way, Alfred was excited about going, and Arthur wasn't going to ruin that excitement. They had gone out of their way to stop by Alfred's house first, where they dropped off his schoolbag and he packed a bag of clothes. Arthur still hadn't figured out when it had turned into an overnight (probably a huge misunderstanding that had spun out of control), but Karen seemed more than happy to send them off with an Xbox and bags of unpopped popcorn (Arthur had revealed that he didn't know if they had any at his house, and Alfred had been quick to solve that problem).

 

“Supposed to be a blizzard tomorrow,” Alfred said while they walked, and Arthur frowned. That would explain why Alfred's bag was especially big, if he had brought snow gear.

 

“That sounds delightful,” Arthur grumbled.

 

“We'll have to make a fort or something. Oh hey, you already planning for winter carnival? We should have snow sculpting or something.”

 

“Sculpting?”

 

“Yeah. Make giant snow sculptures, paint them, all that. You know you can mix food coloring and water to paint them? It's really awesome.”

 

“You think they'd like that?”

 

“Well, if we get a lot of winter stuff going, I bet it'd be fun.”

 

Arthur nodded. He didn't feel right about using Alfred to plan school events, but Alfred was more in touch with other students. Alfred knew what they liked and wanted, and he could connect better with the students. Arthur looked over at Alfred carefully. It was pathetic, really. Alfred was a freshman and would probably make a better president than Arthur.

 

Alfred winked when he caught Arthur looking, and Arthur quickly averted his eyes. Alfred nudged Arthur's wrist and pulled one of his hands from his pocket, and Arthur let him take his fingers. Alfred looked around and tightened his grip on Arthur's hand, pulling quickly so that they were walking closer together.

 

“You're pretty...” Arthur searched for something to say, and Alfred looked over at him. Arthur was annoyed to see that Alfred was _just_ taller than him. “You're shameless.”

 

“What's that supposed to mean?” Alfred laughed and he tugged Arthur's hand to pull him even closer.

 

“Cheeky,” Arthur offered. “Forward. Gutsy.”

 

“Ballsy?” Alfred shifted the bag over his shoulder. “Cocky?”

 

“Terrible.”

 

Alfred let go of Arthur's hand, and for a moment Arthur panicked. A single word, an attempted joke, and he had ruined everything. Alfred was going to leave, and Arthur's belief that it was all a lie, a stupid lie made up by kids that didn't know what they wanted, it was going to come true.

 

Alfred ruffled Arthur's hair and his hand slid down to rest on Arthur's shoulder.

 

“Well, someone has to make the first move. Especially with Francis in the student council.”

 

“You're a freshman. Why do you know abou-”

 

“I don't think there's anyone that doesn't know about him. I mean... Yeah. He's a per...” Alfred screwed up his lips. “Well, he's not...” He took a breath. “He's a pervert, isn't he?”

 

“Don't forget asshole,” Arthur grumbled. “Disgusting.”

 

Alfred laughed. He pulled at Arthur to speed him up, and asked what they were having for dinner. Arthur said something about fish and chips, and Alfred licked his lips.

 

“Yum.”

 

* * *

 

“Hey Mrs. Kirkland!” Alfred said when he walked through the living room. She waved when he walked by, and her eyes lingered on Arthur. Arthur avoided looking at her, either from embarrassment or shame, and she smiled.

 

Arthur hurried to follow Alfred up the stairs and into his bedroom. He hadn't made it inside when he heard Alfred ask who Beckham was, and he grimaced.

 

“You don't know who Beckham is?” Arthur grumbled.

 

“He plays soccer?” Alfred offered, and Arthur walked into the room.

 

“Of course he plays _football_ , you dolt. He's probably the best in the world...” Arthur stared at the framed poster Alfred was pointing at. In it, the football had just been kicked, and Beckham's leg was still forward from kicking it. Beckham's signature stood out in the corner of the poster, thick black lines against light blue sky, and Beckham's face held a smile.

 

He had throw it out. Arthur _knew_ he had. He had tossed it in the trash and never looked at it again, but it was back, in a _frame_ , and he could see a crease on the corner opposite the signature that had likely come when he had rolled it up and jammed it into the trashbin.

 

“That his real signature?” Alfred hadn't noticed Arthur's shock. “Must be real lucky to get that.”

 

“Yeah.” Arthur swallowed. “It was once in a lifetime type thing.”

 

“That's cool.” Alfred looked around Arthur's room and pulled a soccer ball off one of his shelves. “Didn't get a lot of time to look around when Mathias was here. I like it.”

 

“It's comfortable.”

 

“You said you played soccer before. Wanna play?”

 

“It's the middle of winter.”

 

“So? There's only two inches of snow. We can still play. Just a bit of drag when you run.” Alfred grinned and tossed the ball at Arthur. “And no cleats. Or shorts. Unless you wanna wear shorts.”

 

“I'll pass.”

 

“Then let's go!”

Arthur stared at the ball in his hands and Alfred fled the room. He could hear Alfred pounding down the stairs, and then the sliding glass door to the backyard opened and closed.

 

Arthur hesitated before he placed the soccer ball down on the bed and moved to his closet. He pulled pushed a few shirts aside before he found a sweater, already shivering at the thought of the cold outside. He heard the door downstairs slide open and Alfred shouted for him, then it shut once more.

 

Arthur yanked the sweater on over his head and grabbed the ball. He left his room and walked down the stairs. His mother smiled at him when he passed the kitchen and he wished Alfred hadn't shouted. His mother might have taken it the wrong way.

 

“He looks like he's about to call again.” She pointed to the back door where Alfred had his hands in his pockets and was rocking back and forth on his heels. “Get him some gloves and a hat. He could use them.”

 

Arthur nodded and held the ball between his arm and side. He walked to a cabinet beside the back door and opened the small doors, digging through the mound of winter accessories and gardening gloves. He pulled out a pair of winter gloves for himself then glared at those still within. As much as he hated to admit it, Alfred was larger than him (despite still being a freshman). He probably needed a larger pair than Arthur wore, but Arthur wasn't sure there were any available.

 

After a minute, Arthur gave up the search and chose two hats and another pair of gloves for Alfred. When he stepped outside and handed the gloves over, Alfred proved him right by tugging the gloves on and laughing.

 

“Bit tight,” Alfred told him, flexing his fingers. They didn't move as far as they should have, and were held in place by the stretched fabric.

 

“At least we're using our feet instead of our hands,” Arthur said, then pursed his lips. He had wanted to sound somewhat witty, but instead his words felt almost confrontational. Had anyone but Alfred been there, they probably would have thought Arthur was openly insulting his intelligence or something.

 

Alfred simply laughed. He looked over the fenced-in backyard and the trees scattered about, a few large oaks and some smaller fruit trees that Arthur's mother had planted in the spring. It looked empty with all the leaf-less trees (the few large pine trees managed to fill some of the space left behind, but it still looked bare), and the ground was covered in a thin sheet of snow.

 

Arthur tugged on his hat and frowned when he pulled it down to cover his ears. “It's colder.” He dropped the ball and Alfred kicked it out into the snow.

 

“We just have to warm up then.” Alfred ran out into the snow and kicked the ball again, bouncing it off the trunk of a maple tree. “We should have a goal over there,” he pointed towards two oak trees that were close together, “and over there,” he pointed to a pair of maples opposite the oaks. “I call the first one.”

 

Arthur shrugged and stuffed his hands in his pockets. “Alright. So what do we do?”

 

“Try to score without letting the other person score.” Alfred nudged the ball with his toe and Arthur hoped Alfred would think his cheeks had turned bright red because of the cold.

 

Arthur definitely _wasn't_ thinking like that. They were playing football (soccer), and he should be more concerned about the fact that he had somehow just stolen the ball from Alfred and was kicking it towards the empty “goal.” He shouldn't be thinking about how Alfred shone when he turned around after watching the ball pass between the trees, and how even though it was overcast, Alfred shined and his teeth sparkled when he smiled and his eyes were this amazing blue and Arthur was still struggling with denial and everything was going to hurt that much more when the façade was over and Alfred realized that he didn't even _like_ Arthur and he would be alone again and more miserable than when everything had started.

 

It hurt. Arthur grit his teeth and shrugged at Alfred's whoop of amazement, contributed his goal to playing often as a child, and to Alfred just not being ready.

 

They were still in high school. High school relationships didn't last.

 

Arthur was going to be devastated when their _thing_ fell apart, but he would shoulder the burden and let Alfred leave, wouldn't let Alfred suffer at all from the mistake they had both made because of a certain someone's hero complex. He would take the fall and Alfred would continue on without a care in the world, move onto a girlfriend or something, someone better than him.

 

The “relationship” was ending and it hadn't even begun.


	18. Chapter 18

It turned out that Alfred really wasn't that great at soccer. By the time they returned to the house, shivering and pale, Arthur had managed to grab six goals while Alfred had gotten three (two Arthur had let in, and one that Alfred had gotten only after leaping on Arthur and pinning him to the ground before tossing it through the trees).  
  
Arthur had refused to look Alfred in the eye after that incident, and had gotten one last goal before Alfred called it quits and insisted that they go inside. It was a relief and escape from the awkwardness when they realized how cold they really were and rubbed away the aches in their fingers and toes while Arthur's mother made hot chocolate.  
  
“You're pretty good,” Alfred said, barely keeping his teeth from chattering.  
  
“Maybe someday you'll catch up,” Arthur said before he could stop himself, but instead of a glare and shake of the head, Alfred laughed at him.  
  
“I let you win,” Alfred said. He squeezed his feet and rubbed them to warm his toes faster. “I'm that nice, y'know?”  
  
“I'm sure you are,” Arthur mumbled. He rubbed at his cheeks and hated the fact that he was secretly thanking the warmth for hiding the blush on his already-red face.  
  
Alfred grinned and dropped onto the couch, and he looked around before he patted the spot beside him. Arthur frowned before he sat down, and Alfred angled his head so that he could see the entrance to the kitchen while he pulled Arthur's hand into his. Their hands were cold and holding them didn't seem to help. Arthur wasn't really sure what Alfred wanted him to do with his fingers, but Alfred didn't appear to mind at all. Alfred kept his hand around Arthur's while he looked for the remote, and didn't let go when he had to crawl to the other end of the couch to retrieve it (in a rather interesting display of flexibility that rather amazed Arthur).  
  
Arthur didn't shake Alfred away when he returned from hunting the remote. He simply sat back into the couch and rubbed his free hand into his pants to warm it, clenching and releasing his fingers nervously. He wasn't afraid of his mother finding them. She knew about him (was probably suspicious of Alfred), and she was understanding, supportive even. His mother was in his mind, but her reaction brought him no concern.  
  
Arthur was terrified of the hand he was holding. Alfred's hand was there, but it could disappear at any time. He was already investing something in their _thing_ though he couldn't figure out what it was. He just knew that he had to be ready for everything to fall apart, and he had to prepare himself for disappointment. He had to keep himself from falling into a position where he was vulnerable, and he had to once again accept that high school relationships were doomed to fail and that he would be alone when Alfred finally realized that and moved on.  
  
Alfred let go first. Arthur's mother walked into the room and Alfred eagerly took a hot chocolate from her while Arthur waited. She didn't look as though she had seen anything, and she left after glancing once at the television. Alfred looked over at Arthur's hand, but it was holding the mug he had been given.  
  
“Anything you wanna watch?” Alfred asked instead, and Arthur shrugged.  
  


* * *

  
  
“What d'you do at night?” Alfred asked later, when they had finished dinner and migrated to Arthur's bedroom to plug in the game system Alfred had brought over.  
  
Arthur shrugged while he watched Alfred fiddle with the cords. “Homework. Sleep.”  
  
“Oh. So what do you do the other nights?”  
  
Arthur blinked and shrugged. “Just.. study.”  
  
“You should come over to my place more if you're just gonna stay up and study.” Alfred wrinkled his nose and plugged in a wire. “Have fun.”  
  
“I can't fall behind.” Arthur dropped down onto the bed.  
  
“We can study after we do fun stuff. Awesome plan, right?”  
  
Arthur didn't answer and Alfred left the TV. Alfred walked back to Arthur and handed over a control, then sat down beside Arthur.  
  
“Gonna beat you again,” Alfred promised.  
  
“Maybe, maybe not.” Arthur narrowed his eyes slightly. “How do you know I haven't gotten better?”  
  
“You don't play video games.”  
  
Arthur thought of a response, but when he finally thought of one, it was too late to say anything without being awkward. Alfred was already clicking through options on the game and Arthur scooted back to rest his back against the wall. Alfred shifted to the side so that Arthur could see past him, and he paused.  
  
“Tournament mode or just racing?”  
  
Arthur shrugged.  
  
“Tournament,” Alfred decided. He hit a couple buttons and waited for Arthur to pick his vehicle on the selection screen. “Ready for me to beat you?”  
  
“We'll see,” Arthur muttered. He played with the buttons while the screen loaded and Alfred grinned back at him.  
  
“Yep.”

* * *

  
  
Arthur won once. It was nowhere near Alfred's fifty-seven, but it still made him a little proud. He was still thinking about it when he woke up the following morning, curled up in a corner of his bed and staring towards the small window behind his TV. It was gray outside, and it took Arthur a moment to realize that snow was falling.  
  
Arthur stretched his legs out and pushed back the blankets. He kicked a controller and knocked it off the bed, then cursed and crawled around to check on it. It wasn't broken, but had landed next to Alfred's head. Arthur sighed. He couldn't imagine what would have happened if he had broken Alfred's nose (though that would have been far less likely than a simple bloody nose; either way, Arthur would have been in trouble and Alfred probably wouldn't have spoken to him again.  
  
Arthur crawled out of bed and tried to figure out how to get around Alfred. Alfred was sprawled on the floor, arms and legs thrown out haphazardly so that Arthur's floor became an obstacle course. Arthur had to nudge at suspicious lumps in the blankets to check for limbs, and eventually he managed to hop around and out the door without stepping on Alfred and breaking something.  
  
Arthur expected to be the only one awake, but he found his mother already sitting at the counter in the kitchen, sipping a coffee and reading the newspaper. She arched her eyebrows when Arthur sat beside her, and turned the page.  
  
“You're up early.”  
  
Arthur nodded and slipped onto the stool on the other side of the counter.  
  
“Alfred still sleeping?” His mother looked up from the paper to catch his eyes. When Arthur nodded, she hummed. “I thought he'd be an early riser. Earlier than you at least.”  
  
Arthur looked at the microwave and squinted. It was only six-thirty, and he found himself trying to remember when he and Alfred had finished playing games before falling asleep. He couldn't remember if it had been two or three in the morning, but instead of dwelling on it further he looked at his mother. There was no reason she had to be up so early in the morning.  
  
“Do you know what Alfred'll want for breakfast? I can make pancakes.”  
  
Arthur shrugged and leaned forward on the counter. He stared at the paper in her hands and tried to read the headlines upside down. A lot about the blizzard going on outside, mentions of accidents that had happened in the middle of the night. His mother turned the page and he stopped looking at the headlines. Instead he looked at her and frowned.  
  
“Why're you up at six on a Saturday?”  
  
Arthur's mother shrugged and took another sip of her coffee. “Your dad had to get up early, and I couldn't sleep anyway.”  
  
Arthur looked around. “Did Dad leave?”  
  
“He's in the shower.” She let the paper lay flat on the counter and she reached forward to pat Arthur's hand. “You want something to eat?”  
  
“Al's not up yet.”  
  
“I can make toast. Heck, eggs are easy. When Alfred wakes up, we can make pancakes or waffles.” She clapped her hands. “So, what kind of eggs do you want?”  
  
“Scrambled.”  
  
Arthur's mother took another sip of her coffee and then put the cup in the sink. Arthur rested his head on his arms and shut his eyes while he listened to her. She shuffled around the kitchen and opened the refrigerator door a few times, then he heard her searching through pans and knocking them together. She didn't talk while she moved through the kitchen, and the noises softened and had an almost-melodic feel to them.  
  
Arthur probably would have fallen asleep if a hand hadn't fallen down on his shoulder and patted him. He shifted his head slightly and opened an eye to look up. His father looked down at him and smiled. Arthur shut his eye again and pressed his face into his arm.  
  
His parents hugged and kissed, and he heard his mother say something about driving safely. He looked up again when his father walked past and rubbed his shoulder.  
  
“Don't get in trouble,” his father said, and Arthur nodded. “I'll see you tomorrow.”  
  
Arthur hummed and his father left him to. Arthur heard the front door open and shut, and he wondered if he would be able to fall back to sleep.  
  
“Maybe you should jump back in bed,” his mother said, and he shrugged. She was already cooking eggs, and he didn't want to waste the food.  
  
“I'm good.”  
  
“Huh.” There was a pause, hesitation, and his mother poured eggs into the pan. “Is Alfred your..?”  
  
“I don't know.” Arthur shrugged. “He says he is.”  
  
Arthur's mother laughed softly, and to Arthur it sounded like it was in disbelief. “You guys can't agree on something like that?” Something sizzled and Arthur shifted to look at her. “Well, I don't know what's going on in your head – or his for that matter – but I hope it works out.” She pointed at Arthur with her spatula and shook it. “For the record, I think he'd be good with you. Not that I've known him for a long time, but he seems like fun. I don't think your father would object.”  
  
“You sure that isn't because he's the only gay guy around?” Arthur asked when his mother returned to the eggs. She pulled the pan from the stove and set it on a pad.  
  
“I think I've gotten past that stage, especially after last time.”  
  
Arthur cringed. It had been shortly after he had brought home a new boyfriend in England, and his mother had said something about how he had gotten said boyfriend. Namely that the relationship had started because Arthur was bi and there were probably no other gay students in their school that his new boyfriend could find. He hadn't spoken with his mother for a week after their shouting argument, and the memory brought new humiliation. His mother had been in a difficult position, what with learning that her youngest was into both sexes and being thrust into uncharted territory when boyfriends started appearing between girlfriends. Arthur had (probably) been too hard on her, and neither needed to be reminded of that incident.  
  
“I think he's good. He's nice, he got _you_ outside and playing, and he called me “ma'am.” I've _never_ been called ma'am before.” She put some eggs onto plates and slid one in front of Arthur. “I like him.”

* * *

  
  
“There's like... Five feet out there. We should build an igloo.”  
  
Arthur crossed his arms and stared. Alfred had his nose pressed against the door in the living room, and he stared out the window at the swirling snow in the backyard. It was a whiteout, the wind catching the falling snow and whipping it around so that they could only see three feet outside.  
  
“How can you tell how much there is? You can't even see anything.”  
  
Alfred shrugged and pulled his face away from the window. “Well, it's coming down heavier and it's been a while. Bet it's really getting up there.”  
  
“There probably isn't even a foot.” Arthur grabbed the remote that Alfred had left on his side of the couch and he turned up the TV volume. A vampire was descending on a victim and Alfred pointed outside.  
  
“We should play soccer.”  
  
“I'm not going outside. You realize how cold it is?”  
  
Alfred sighed and dropped down on the couch. Arthur felt guilty when he saw Alfred's pout, but then Alfred fell over on his side so that he was almost lying on Arthur.  
  
“Bet they're not delivering pizzas today.”  
  
“There's a frozen one in the freezer.” Arthur patted Alfred's head hesitantly, and Alfred looked back up at him.  
  
“We should go make it.”  
  
“Can we at least finish the movie?”  
  
“We don't have to.”  
  
“I don't want to miss it!”  
  
Alfred frowned and grabbed at Arthur's hands for the remote. “You can watch it later.”  
  
“Are you sca-”  
  
Alfred moved his hands up to cover Arthur's mouth, and Arthur glared down at him.  
  
“Heroes don't get scared,” Alfred told him.  
  
Arthur pushed Alfred's hands down. “Which is why you haven't looked at the TV since the first person was bitten?”  
  
Alfred sat back up so that he was no longer leaning on Arthur. “I just like other movies.”  
  
“What's so bad about this one?”  
  
“Bad CG.”  
  
Arthur leaned back against the arm of the couch and narrowed his eyes at Alfred. “It has nothing to do with the CG and you know it.”  
  
Alfred lunged at Arthur, earning a squawk of surprise and the remote.  
  
“Ha!” Alfred cheered when he held the remote in the air. “I win!” He pressed a button for the TV while Arthur struggled to retrieve the remote. “Here, I'll record the show for you and we can watch,” he paused while he clicked through channels, “Indiana Jones. You'll love it.”  
  
“I highly doubt that,” Arthur grumbled. He stared at the TV once Alfred changed the channel, and wished he didn't have to uphold some kind of strict, uncaring image in front of people.  
  
It would have been easier to simply say “sounds fine to me.”  
  
Arthur loved the movie.

* * *

  
  
The rest of vacation passed slowly. Alfred invited Arthur over for dinners and to Matthew's hockey games, while Arthur invited Alfred over when his brothers were with girlfriends or at work. It was annoying and stressful. Alfred was very obviously trying to make their “thing” work, but Arthur felt guilty. Alfred was giving far more than Arthur could reciprocate.  
  
It was almost a relief when vacation ended and they returned to school. With little time to spend together, Arthur didn't have to feel the overwhelming guilt when he wondered whether their relationship was built on emotions or drugs, or if his inability to give more would ultimately lead to their ruin (it took weeks, but he once admitted his fears to Alfred only to receive a slap on the back and “that's stupid. I know this is real, you should too.”).  
  
Alfred didn't care. Between classes he could be found peeking into the student council offices in search of Arthur, and after school he often found himself tutoring Arthur in math. It was a weird set up but it worked, and Alfred would insist that Arthur follow him to McDonald's or Wendy's after school for fries or milk shakes. He would bounce ideas off Arthur for school events, and Arthur gradually warmed up to the idea of getting help on bigger projects.  
  
The changes, subtle as they may have been, did not go unnoticed.  
  
“Did you finally get laid?”  
  
Arthur looked up from his homework and glared at Francis. Francis was flipping through a stack of papers that Arthur had filed not ten minutes before. “Go away.”  
  
“It's an honest question. I don't think you've ever completed work this quickly.” Francis pulled a sheet of paper from the stack. “Snow sculptures and a dance for winter carnival? Who are you and what have you done with Arthur?”  
  
Arthur put down his pen and stood to shout at Francis, but before he could say anything Alfred was squeezing past Francis and walking into the office. Francis looked between the two with a look of understanding and a smile lit his face.  
  
“I see,” Francis said, and he chuckled. “This is better than I could have imagined. Much better.”  
  
“Francis, don't you dare tell anyone!” Arthur snapped, and Francis laughed.  
  
“I don't out people, Arthur.” Francis patted Alfred's head and received a frown. “You think too poorly of me. If this gets you to lighten up a little, then I wish you the best.” He turned to leave but paused when he grabbed the door. “If you ever need any... _tips_ , feel free to come an-”  
  
“Francis!” Arthur growled, but the door shut behind his fleeing back.  
  
Alfred looked over at Arthur, and Arthur took a breath.  
  
“Oh god, he's going to tell everyone.”  
  
Alfred glanced over at the door before he grimaced and looked back at Arthur. “I'll go talk to him.”  
  
Alfred ran out the door and left Alfred alone with his homework and the fear that in less than ten minutes, he would be outed and ridiculed by the entire student body. Alfred would get it just as bad as Arthur, possibly worse considering he was on the football team and had changed in the locker room with the other boys on the team.  
  
Arthur had let Alfred pull him along, and now both of their lives were going to be ruined.  
  
Arthur couldn't concentrate on his homework. The numbers swam in his head until he was so distracted that he shoved his paper into his bag and moved on to staring at a binder full of prom committee files.  
  
Arthur started at the unopened binder until Alfred returned twenty minutes later with a smile and Francis's word that he wouldn't tell. Arthur wasn't so willing to believe him, except that Alfred was persistent. He insisted that Matthew had run into him, and Matthew had vouched for Francis (apparently they were in French club together). Arthur was unwilling to believe him, but when school finally ended and people weren't whispering behind their hands about Arthur's love life, he let himself believe that he had at least another eighteen hours of peace.  
  
Four days passed of Arthur avoiding Alfred during school, and when nothing happened, Arthur hesitantly relaxed with the belief that in the mean time, nothing bad was going to happen.

* * *

  
  
“So about prom.”  
  
“Not happening.” Arthur turned the page in his textbook to continue reading Romeo and Juliet.  
  
Alfred sat on the floor by the foot of his bed, playing a game where his only goal was to kill as many aliens as possible. Alfred jumped up when an alien exploded and covered his screen with gore, and he dropped the controller on the floor.  
  
Instead of cursing like he wanted to, Alfred looked back over his shoulder at Arthur. “Why not? I thought you said we were.”  
  
“It's a bad idea.” Arthur stared at the page without reading. “We shouldn't do it.”  
  
Alfred stood and climbed on his bed, grabbing for Arthur's wrist. “I thought we were gonna hang out and watch movies. Play games, stuff like that.” Before Arthur could answer, Alfred had pulled the book out of his hand to look at it. “Better than reading something like this.”  
  
Arthur grabbed the book back and Alfred frowned at him. “I like this book.”  
  
“What is it you always say?” Alfred reached for the book again but Arthur pulled it out of reach. Alfred raised his voice, trying to make it nasally and high pitched. “'I fail to see why you always miss the point.'”  
  
“I don't talk like that.”  
  
“Yeah you do.”  
  
“I don't.” Arthur creased the corner of the page and put his book down on the bed. “Well. It's not like underclassmen are allowed at prom unless they're invited. They won't wonder why you're not there.”  
  
“Who says I'd go anyway?” Alfred snorted. “If you don't, why would I?”  
  
Arthur decided not to comment on that. “So what're we supposed to do? The same things we always do? Hang out?”  
  
Alfred froze and stared at Arthur. “Uh.” He looked back at the TV and beat his fingers on the bedspread. “I'll figure something out. Yeah.”  
  
“It doesn't have to be a big deal!” Arthur said hurriedly, inwardly cursing himself for potentially giving Alfred more work. “The same thing is good! I mean, it already works so-”  
  
“No way, it's gotta be special.” Alfred paused and looked at Arthur thoughtfully. “Maybe if you wear a dress-”  
  
“Don't even-” Arthur quickly tried to think of something smart to say, but he could only get out, “Never. Ever. Why would you even suggest it?”  
  
“It was a joke, calm down.” Alfred laughed and flopped down on the bed, just missing the legs that Arthur pulled back. “I'll figure it out. You're gonna love it. It's gonna be awesome!”  
  
Arthur debated on whether he should grab his book or not. The silence after Alfred's statement was awkward at best, and he really wasn't sure if Alfred expected a response or not. He wanted to tell him not to bother and that he didn't want to feel miserable because he was pushing Alfred into doing extra work, but he knew that Alfred _wanted_ to do it.  
  
Arthur reminded himself that Alfred _liked_ going above and beyond to impress him, that he liked doing extra work for him. It was a weird concept to accept (and Arthur still didn't really believe it), but everything seemed to go better when he just let Alfred take the reins. It didn't quell his nervousness and anxiety, but letting go of that little bit of control did wonders for his sanity.  
  
Arthur could just step back, like he'd been doing in the months since they had gotten together, and he could wait for whatever would happen to happen.

* * *

  
  
“So, prom night!”  
  
“Shut the door, please,” Arthur said quickly when Alfred burst through the door into the student council office.  
  
Alfred shut the door behind him and grabbed a chair. He turned it so that the back faced Arthur, and then he straddled it.  
  
“Mom and Dad're going out on a date and Matt's going to a friend's, so the house is ours. There're movies and games, and I've got a football and other stuff. Mom said she'll make scones.” Alfred finally noticed that Arthur was trying to fill out some forms. “What're you doing?”  
  
“Nothing.” Arthur dropped his pen and crossed his arms. “That sounds fun.”  
  
“Yeah. Seriously, what _is_ that? Graduation stuff or something?” Alfred grabbed the papers before Arthur could stop him. “Elections? Cool.”  
  
“Yeah.” Arthur pulled the paper back. “But really, it sounds fun.”  
  
“I'll beat you this time,” Alfred grinned. “You won't have a chance!”  
  
Arthur glanced at the clock and started putting his things in his bag for math class. “Good luck with that. Really.”

* * *

  
  
“So.”  
  
Arthur didn't look up from the papers he was putting in folders and packing in his bag. Math had been draining (he loathed tests, and even with Alfred's help he still didn't understand most of the material), and Alfred was probably waiting for him in front of the school.  
  
“You're not running for president again?”  
  
“I'm not running for anything.” Arthur zipped his bag.  
  
“Maybe it's for the best.” Francis sighed and stepped into the room from the hall. “Run away because nobody likes you. It's not like you actually _did_ anything. Like... Oh, I don't know, planning events they enjoyed, cutting funds from clubs that didn't need it and using it for events, planning fundraisers for the groups that wanted more funds... You really didn't do much this year.”  
  
“I don't like you, and you know that. So why are you talking to me and what do you want?”  
  
Francis acted like he'd been shot. He grabbed at his chest and gasped. “My God! How cold!”  
  
“I'm not joking.”  
  
“Neither am I.” Francis brushed at his shirt and sighed. “I'm just wondering what you're thinking. I thought that—despite your rather horrid way of dealing with people—you did an okay job. I just thought you'd rush for the chance to run again.”  
  
“It's none of your business.” Arthur slung his bag over his shoulder and turned to the door.  
  
“I'm just saying,” Francis started, “I didn't think you'd give up.”  
  
Arthur tried to turn the door knob, but it didn't budge. “Why'd you lock the door?”  
  
“Six months ago, you wouldn't have asked. You would've unlocked it and walked out without a word.” Francis shrugged. “I just hope whatever you do works out.”  
  
Arthur swallowed. “It will.” He unlocked the door and left.

* * *

  
  
“I thought we were playing football.”  
  
“We are.” Alfred tossed the football in his hands into the air and caught it. “ _American_ football. We can play soccer later.”  
  
They stood in the yard behind Alfred's house. They were alone, as Alfred's family had managed to disappear for the night so that they could enjoy their prom night. Arthur really hated that Alfred was so insistent on calling it their prom night, considering it was really nothing more than hanging out as usual (though Alfred had tried to make it special with desserts and a catered meal (that was really just pizza delivered from the local store).  
  
“I don't really... _like_ American football,” Arthur said hesitantly.  
  
“You ever played?” Alfred waited, but Arthur didn't answer. “It's not the Super Bowl. Just pass it back 'n forth, and then try to run it past me. Can't really play a game since it's only the two of us, but we can screw around.”  
  
“I have no hand-eye coordination,” Arthur blurted.  
  
“So?” Alfred grinned. “It doesn't matter. We just gotta have fun.”  
  
Alfred tossed the ball and Arthur grabbed for it. He managed to hug it to his chest and Alfred laughed. “Toss it back, c'mon!”  
  
Arthur grabbed it to throw it back, but Alfred shook his head.  
  
“Put your fingers on the stitching when you throw. That makes it go better.”  
  
Arthur paused to adjust his hand and shifted for Alfred to see. When Alfred nodded, Arthur threw it back. It went wide and almost hit a tree, but Alfred didn't care. He ran after it and snatched it up when it bounced off the ground.  
  
“Next time, bring your hand back farther. Past your ear.” Alfred tossed the ball back and Arthur lunged for it. “You'll get it,” Alfred assured Arthur when the ball bounced, and Arthur nodded.  
  
“You sure you want to tell me what to do?” Arthur held the ball up and prepared to throw it. “You don't want me to beat you in two sports.”  
  
“You're not gonna beat me.” Alfred grinned. “Not a chance.”

* * *

  
  
While the “game” left them both tired (and Arthur feeling seriously annoyed with his inferior skills), they still played soccer (Arthur felt considerably better after beating Alfred six times) until they decided that the trembling in their legs meant they were done.  
  
Alfred jumped in the shower while Arthur flipped through TV channels. He paused to watch the news (there had been a car accident by the high school, unrelated to prom), then searched for something different. He paused at a movie with unicorns spiriting a woman away from her home, and then Alfred appeared to take Arthur's place while he took his own shower.  
  
“Pizza's on its way,” Alfred said when Arthur returned. He was clicking through pay-per-view channels and pausing to look at movie descriptions. “Hey, I can help you for the next election. I can do posters for you.”  
  
“I'm not running.” Arthur sat down on the couch and avoided looking at Alfred. He looked at the movie list and waited for Alfred to pick one (or for Alfred to question him not running).  
  
“Cool!” Alfred grinned and looked back at the TV. “Now you can't shut yourself in the office. We're gonna have to find more stuff to do.”  
  
“We can't do McDonald's everyday.”  
  
“Well, damn.” Alfred pouted and picked out a movie.  
  
Arthur settled back into the couch and waited for the movie to begin, but when the opening credits started, Alfred's voice broke the silence.  
  
“What do you think about Wendy's?”


	19. Chapter 19

“I don’t think they’re going to pick a freshman president. Why not just run for student congress?” Arthur shut his history book and dropped it on the floor beside his bed. “They like the guy they have now, and you’re relatively… unknown.”  
   
Alfred lay back on Arthur’s bed and stared at the ceiling. The walls in Arthur’s dorm room were off-white and the heater by the window clattered noisily when it turned on. Alfred kicked it and Arthur spun his chair around.  
   
“Do you really need to do that every time? You’re probably making it worse.”  
   
“Why can’t we hang out in my room?” Alfred kicked the heater again and Arthur hit him in the shoulder. “We don’t have that.”  
   
“Your room is always filled with a dozen people,” Arthur shrugged, “while my roommate never comes back from his girlfriend’s. Anyways, back to what we were talking about.”  
   
“I was prez in high school, I can be prez here, too.” Alfred grabbed one of the pillows and threw it at Arthur.  
   
Arthur grabbed at the pillow quickly when it hit him in the face, and he frowned at Alfred. “No one’s looking into your high school records for eligibility issues.” He set the pillow down on his lap and tried to think of a way to approach the issue. “It’s just that you’re new.”  
   
“Everyone saw me on the football field. They know me.”  
   
“There are over fifty players on the team. You might not stand out as well as you think.”  
   
“Like how you stand out in soccer? I saw those girls attack yo-“  
   
Arthur grabbed his pillow and thrust it in Alfred’s face before he could continue. Alfred grabbed at Arthur’s hands and pulled them apart so he could push the pillow away.  
   
“That was a simple misunderstanding,” Arthur said sternly.  
   
“Really? ‘Cause they were all swoony-eyed when they found out you had an accent, too.”  
   
Arthur pushed the pillow back down and left his chair. He pressed his knee down on the bed to get some leverage, but leaned too far forward. Alfred managed to upend him with a jerk, and they both ended up sprawled over the bedspread with the pillow between them.  
   
“If they were interested in my accent, then Heracles would have a following as well!”  
   
“But no one can understand Heracles’ accent.”  
   
“Does that matter?”  
   
Alfred shrugged and grabbed the pillow he tossed it off the bed behind him and Arthur sat up. He reached past him to grab the pillow from the floor, but Alfred wrapped his arms around his waist and held him in place.  
   
“Alfred, let go.”  
   
“Don’t want to.”  
   
“ _Alfred._ ”  
   
Alfred tightened his grip and pulled Arthur closer. “Why’re you acting so uptight?”  
   
“You brought up the election, why are you avoiding it now?”  
   
“You’re distracting me.”  
   
“Bullshit.” Arthur pushed Alfred away and climbed off the bed. “You’re not tricking me into being your campaign manager. You might like the idea of president, but you’re not winning against the current guy. You’re too new for that.”  
   
Alfred grumbled under his breath and aimed another kick at the heater, failing to hit it when Arthur grabbed his leg. “Why’re you such a buzzkill?”  
   
“Because you’re going to break the heater and _I’m_ going to have to pay for it.”  
   
“If you’d roomed with me like I wanted, there wouldn’t be a heater to beak.”  
   
Arthur crossed his arms. “Incoming freshman stay with freshman. They mix later.”  
   
“You have to be my roommate next year.” Alfred watched while Arthur bent and snatched up the pillow from the floor. “We can have all kinds of sex and smoke pot and do drugs and all kinds of gay stuff.”  
   
Arthur choked. He turned bright red and Alfred grabbed the pillow from him. “Don’t you have homework?” Arthur demanded when he sat back down at his desk and turned away from Alfred.  
   
“I can do it later.” Alfred grinned. “After the crazy sex and all.”  
 

* * *

  
   
Alfred left shortly after, possibly annoyed that he still kept the title of “virgin.” Arthur didn’t have any pity for him, as he needed to finish a report and Alfred’s repeated taunts of sex and/or snuggles weren’t helping.  
   
Alfred’s recent fascination with sex was probably understandable. It wasn’t a mystery what happened in Alfred’s room when Alfred was with Arthur, and his roommate had it to himself (and one of his many hook-ups). It also wasn’t a mystery where Arthur’s roommate always was. He was new to the college scene, and while high school had been host to many stories of sexual discovery, college was much blunter about it. Men and women bragged about having sex, people had it whenever they had an empty dorm room to themselves, and it was a casual thing for most.  
   
There may have been more pressure to get down and dirty in high school, but the fact that there was little or no pressure in college made it more appealing.  
   
Not that Arthur really cared. There was a time and place for everything, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to have sex with Alfred in a place where anyone could walk in on them.  
   
Arthur sighed and laid his arms on his desk. He rested his chin on them and shut his eyes. He idly wondered if Alfred would hate him for refusing, and entertained the idea that it would lead to a break-up and years of awkwardly avoiding each other. Three years before, he probably would have gotten lost in the fantasy and hidden himself away. The current-Arthur, however, could separate the worst case scenario from reality and avoid sinking into the pit.  
   
There were still times that Arthur wasn’t able to fully separate himself from the worst cases. It had been hard adapting to the new people in college, trying to make friends with complete strangers and trying to keep the relationships he had almost lost so many times back home. It had felt like juggling two lives, and while Arthur hated to admit that Alfred’s admittance to the same college helped, it did. There was less juggling and finally someone that could give him a hand when he needed it.  
   
Alfred understood. Alfred had been there for Arthur’s worst, and while Arthur hated to think that he could sink that low again, Alfred was there (when he wasn’t taunting Arthur about his supposed fangirls).  
   
Arthur had fears. He feared that he would relapse. He feared that he would sink low enough to need the medication he had left behind years before. He feared that he would be too clingy and smother Alfred by relying on him and using him as a crutch.  
   
They probably weren’t normal fears, but they were common. They were fears he could deal with and fight to avoid. They were fears that brought about a little bit of hope.  
   
Arthur was happy. He had hope. He couldn’t see his future, but he was sure he had one.  
   
As long as he finished his paper and passed.


End file.
